XOXO

You spin on your heels and venture down the hallway, the man hot on your trail. You are well familiar with this club and know down the hall to the right is where you’d find exactly who you were looking for. Your hand wraps around the knob and you slam it open. Just as you walk in, the man grasps you by your arm once more and yanks you back.

Yoongi watches as your free arm reaches back and punches Haru right between the eyes. The man, tall and bulky, stumbles back in shock. His lip twitches as he watches you continue to hit the tall man who is far too stunned to initially speak. He’s seated at his desk, cigarette between his fingers. Your scream, mixed with the music coming from down the hall, is echoing off of his walls.

“You stupid bitch-”

Though you were well-trained since a child alongside the very man you come to see - and more - you still had a bit of a disadvantage. You were told that men were naturally stronger than women and by the look in Haru’s eyes, he was done being nice with you. His fist tightens and before he has the chance to do anything, there’s a gunshot that rings through the air.

Haru gasps, a stinging in his shoulder. He falls back against the door, his hand clenching the gunshot wound that’s now oozing blood. You stand a bit straighter, rolling your eyes.

Yoongi’s right hand has his gun pointed in the air when you turn to meet his gaze. His cigarette hangs lazily from his lips, dark eyes meeting yours.

Footsteps gather in the hallway as Haru begins to sob. Soon, familiar faces crowd the room.

“What the fuck?”

Jungkook looks between you and Yoongi and immediately he has a clue.

“I thought we had rules?”

Jimin’s arms are crossed as he steps into the room. Haru is bleeding out and he couldn’t care less.

“Y/N.” Jimin nods his head towards you. “What a pleasure.”

“Can we get someone to get him out of here?”  Jin sounds disgusted. “He’s bleeding all over the floor and I don’t like the smell of iron.”

Yoongi drops his gun onto the table and proceeds to take his seat at the desk. 

“Ah, isn’t it the infamous Y/N.” Taehyung leans against the open door. “What is it this time, hyung? Did Haru try to get with her?” he snickers. His eyes look down the hall. “Take him somewhere, please. He’s annoying me with all that whimpering he’s doing.”

Yoongi exhales the smoke from his nose, eyes darting around the room.

“He was going to hit her.” Yoongi answers coolly.

Jungkook furrows his brows, but he remains quiet. You were a woman, sure, but he’s watched you take down men bigger than Haru before. You weren’t the primadonna Yoongi treats you at times.

 “Y/N, what can I help you with?” Yoongi questions, his attention turning to you. “Drink?”

“I suppose I’ll take my leave.” Jimin announces. Whatever you wanted - especially if you came to Yoongi solely and not all of them - meant that it wasn’ for his ears. “I have inventory to take care of.”

The room is silent once more as Jin was the last to leave, closing the door behind him. Yoongi awaits your response, pouring you a glass of whisky to match his own. He motions for you to sit in the seat across from him, his cigarette smoke dancing in the air.

You drop your purse on the desk, uncaring if a few items drop due to the weight of it. Your eyes are hard and glaring and with that, excitement runs through Yoongi’s body.

“My men,” you begin, voice cold and laced with venom. “are dead.”

Yoongi picks up the glass and places it against his lips. He takes a sip, eyes watching you. “And you’re telling me…because?” he murmurs a response before taking a sip.

Instantly, your hand slaps the glass out of Yoongi’s palm. It crashes against a nearby wall, sending liquid flying everywhere.

“My men are dead and I know you motherfuckers-”

Yoongi stands, his chair scraping against the floor. His face comes closer to yours, so close that you can smell the liquor already on his breath. 

“Bangtan didn’t kill your men, Y/N.” Yoongi hisses.

“Bull. Shit.” your teeth grits.

You were only 21 when you inherited this empire from your father - much to your dismay and possibly that of those working for him. You weren’t a man, you always heard. This was a man’s world you were in - the drugs, the trafficking, the murder. A woman didn’t belong in it, and yet it all belonged to you now. 

Your father didn’t have any more children after you. You often thought about how easier your life would be if you were a boy growing up. You didn’t have time to think about what the other girls did growing up - the birthday parties with friends, sleepovers. You didn’t attend a school so those homecomings or prom you’d see on T.V. weren’t for you. The birthday party you begged your father to give you were littering with the same gang members, murderers and drug traffickers you grew up alongside.

Now here you stand, years later. A shell of your former self. You contemplate if you lack the natural empathy and softness you witness other women have. As a child, you told yourself by this age, you’d be married with kids - not leading a syndicate. Marriage and children appeared to be out of the question as you couldn’t stand a man for longer than 3 minutes - the misogyny, the audacity and overall incompetence.

“Bangtan and Deathrow,” you roll your eyes; partly because you hated the family names chosen by people who were dead now. “for years now we have been rivals. However,” Yoongi’s pink tongue coats his lips. “we have never harmed you or your men.”

You inhale deeply. You stretch the kink in your neck before responding. “Deathrow and Bangtan are the only families that run anything around here.” you grit. “And I have a dozen dead bodies and no one to account for them.”

Yoongi’s eyes glances down to your own lips. He’s fascinated that even when you surround yourself with such heinous activities, you haven’t given yourself up. The heels, the light makeup, and not a single hair out of place. 

Yoongi was also a bit drunk and he shouldn’t be growing hard right now - especially not when you’re glaring daggers at him. 

“You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.” Yoongi’s voice softens a bit.

Your eyes glance away.

Things were complicated when it came to you and Yoongi - or the rest of them. While Yoongi had 6 other people to rely on with equal responsibility, you only had yourself. You couldn’t afford to have a day off when you had everything your own family has worked hard for on the line. The people who worked under you had their own mouths to feed and juggling it all was far too much for one person to handle.

The feud between Deathrow and Bangtan was once a partnership. You grew up alongside Yoongi and the rest of them. Jungkook is just a couple years younger than you. You recall the way you would wrestle with him in your youth. It was Hoseok who showed you how to shoot a gun for the first time and you trained alongside him instead of you both attending middle school. 

The rivalry began with an unknown traitor that divided both sides and though you remained cordial with the boys, now men, you grew up alongside, it was evident where your loyalty and theirs must lie.

“You got my birthday gift.” Yoongi states. His eyes almost didn’t catch it, but you’re wearing the necklace around your neck. The diamond-studded chair with an oval-cut gemstone; your birthstone. It was a gift he had sent to you on your birthday and though he had not expected you to say anything in return, he had hoped you kept it.

Your body warms at the realization that you hadn’t taken off the necklace prior to coming. You swallow a bit, your throat aching.

Yoongi rounds the corner of his desk warily. He would never hurt you and he doubts you would either, but he doesn’t know where your mind is now and he doesn’t want to set you off.

“There’s been a little trouble around here, as well.” Yoongi murmurs. His hand touches your arm, slightly bringing you closer to him. “A few of our own men have died. It seems we may have a bit of competition.”

The scar on Yoongi’s right eye is the constant reminder of the history you and he shared. Without thinking of your actions, your hands lift to touch Yoongi’s cheek. Your fingers slide across the long, red scar, the memories of that time flooding back to you. The way Yoongi’s lips pressed against your warm skin, his large hands sliding up your sides. Those same lips kissing down your chest, to your stomach and right between your legs. His tongue flickers between your folds, his fingers diving right into you and pumping in a way that only he knows how.

Then, the memories come crashing down. Your bedroom door crashes open and you’re forced to cover your naked body. Your father doesn’t bother to look down at you and instead focuses his entire attention to Yoongi, men surrounding your bedroom and making their way towards Yoongi.

“What do you want me to do?” Yoongi asks. His larger hand places itself over your hand. It causes you to come back to reality - the present. 

You blink, removing your hand from his face. Yoongi doesn’t like it; he feels a breeze run through him. 

“I want you to find out who killed my men.” you say, voice hardening. “And take them out.”

Yoongi furrows his brows, a smirk forming onto his lips. He tilts his head at you. You were so cute when you demanded bloodshed. 

“You’re too beautiful to be running a syndicate, Y/N.” Yoongi tells you. He has the urge to hold you like he used to, but he holds himself back. “You deserve to be doted on.”

“Stop fucking playing with me, Yoongi.” you hiss, eyes darkening. “I have product to move and the men that were supposed to do that are being buried. I have to make arrangements for their families. My fucking product-”

“Is it stolen? Ours, as well.” Yoongi quips. 

“-and I don’t have time for you to be fucking flirting with me!”

Yoongi cracks a smile and instantly, your hands crash against his chest.You shove him as hard as you could.

“Yoongi-”

“Your issue isn’t with me, Y/N.” Yoongi embraces you, unphased by your outburst. “You and I have a common enemy.”

Yoongi’s cologne is citrusy and musk and instantly you calm down. You want to melt in his arms and have your worries go away, but you cannot.

“Why won’t you let me help you?” Yoongi questions.

“I came here for your help.” you whisper - and he has to know how difficult it was for you to do this. 

“I know. That isn’t what I meant.” Yoongi holds you closer. He doesn’t want to let you go - not like he was forced to. His eyes peer into yours. “You’re stressed and you’re doing it all alone. Let me help you.” he murmurs. “Let us help you.”

Yoongi’s nose is tickling yours and his lips are only a breath away. You’ve once again found yourself in this predicament; right in his arms. You inhale his scent once more and then sigh.

“I missed you.” Yoongi speaks.

“I didn’t come here for that.”

“I know.” Yoongi grins. “You come to use me like you always do.”

You’re silent, eyes unblinking as you look at Yoongi.

“That’s what you do. You come in here and demand something because you know I’ll do whatever you ask.” Yoongi continues. His arms tighten around your embrace. 

“So…I’m a user?” you snort with a roll of your eyes.

“No.” Yoongi shakes his head. “I’m a man and I’m supposed to be a provider.”

You’re quiet.

“And I’ll keep providing for you, Y/N…all you have to do is let me.”

Yoongi’s lips are soft and you instantly melt against them. You’re unsure how much you truly missed him until you finally had him in your hands. The years you’ve gone by keeping him at a distance has led him to this very moment now.

Yoongi doesn’t care about anything on his desk anymore. He gladly hoists you up onto the desk and forces your legs apart, your skirt rising up. His tongue dances around with yours, large hands cupping your hips to assure you remain close. 

It takes Yoongi forever to remove his lips from yours, but when he does it only trails down the side of your face to your jaw, then chin. Your breathing increases as he reaches your neck. His warm tongue circles the nape of your neck, a low groan coming from his throat.

“Y/N…”

Your breathing hitches at the sound of your name coming from Yoongi’s lips - so deep and vulnerable, yet dripping with years full of lust.

“What do you want from me, Yoon?”

Yoon, you haven’t called him that in years. 

“You know what I want.” Did you?

Your legs tighten around Yoongi’s waist, bringing him closer. You can feel him melt in your embrace. As much as you try to hide it, there isn’t a point in lying to yourself in saying that you didn’t want Yoongi, either. You missed his hands on you; touching you in ways only he knew how to.

“I’ll give you what you want,” you sigh, your hands on his shoulders squeezing. You can feel Yoongi’s bulge right at your core. You roll your hips just to tease him. “find out who’s behind our missing product.”

Yoongi inhales deeply for a moment, eyes squeezed shut. He was going to do what you asked of him, regardless if he was involved or not. It’s what he always did for you, no matter the rivalry between both families. “You’re such a handful.” Yoongi exhales, yet he wouldn’t have you any other way.

“Good thing you have two hands.”

With the same two hands, Yoongi had worked overtime. It took a week for him to find out just who was behind it, but there wasn’t a time limit. In the meantime, he had allowed you to borrow some of his men to move your product - an action that would’ve been frowned upon if he wasn’t who he was in the family.

Jin watches amused with how ruthless Yoongi could be when it comes to you. The man, often lazy and would rather sit behind the scenes and direct others to do his work, was now getting his own hands dirty. That’s what Hoseok and Jungkook were for, yet he joins the younger men just because you asked him to.

“To think it’s been…” Jimin does the math in his head. “...what? Six years?” he asks Jin. He assembles the stolen drugs into duffle bags. 

“Just about.” Jin responds, the screaming of the tortured man nothing but background noise.

Six years since Yoongi and you were…anything. It was evident that Yoongi had set his sight on you since youth; silently, of course. He lingered around you for too long for anyone to not get the hint. It only increased as you grew older and grew into your own feminine figure that Yoongi found himself having to show others that he was serious about courting you. 

That meant shooting someone right in the leg - but other’s got the point. The downfall of Bangtan and Deathrow only meant the downfall of you and Yoongi’s relationship; he grew grumpier, more silent and care little about anything unless it directly involved you.

“We need to get information from him, hyung,” Jungkook sighs, watching the way Yoongi appears to leave the man's head underneath the running water far too long. “not just torture him.”

“He’s probably intimidated since it’s three of us.” Hoseok calls, leaning against the wall. 

“Probably.” Yoongi calls. He shuts off the water and turns his sights to Jungkook and Hoseok. “Get the rest of the drugs and weapons and load them in the truck.”

Hoseok knits his brows. “But-”

“Fine.” Jungkook shrugs, locking eyes with Hoseok. There wasn’t a point in arguing with Yoongi now. He know just as well as the rest of them that he was going to stop; his adoration for you far exceeded his own sanity.

Once alone, Yoongi shoves the man back into the seat. He grabs his pocket knife and undoes the robe around one wrist. He then slams it against the table. “Okay,” Yoongi murmurs, dark eyes locking in with terrified ones. “I want all the names that were in charge of the job.”

The man shakes his head. “Please-”

“It wasn’t a choice.” Yoongi snickers. “You…upset someone I care about.” the cold metal of the plastic knife presses against the man's cheek. “And I’m going to right this wrong, okay? Now right before one of them died, they said it was around five of them.”

Yoongi removes the knife from the terrified man’s cheek and proceeds to place it against the man’s thumb. “You have five fingers. Let’s count down the names, shall we?”

“P-Please, I don’t know-”

A blood curdling scream echoes off of the walls. Blood shoots out from the man's thumb, painting the wooden table crimson.

“Name’s.” Yoongi deadpans. He’s already making his way towards the index.

“Wu-”

Index finger is the next to go - only because he was sick of playing games. 

“Shinra!” the man suddenly belts, the veins on his neck pulsing at losing another finger.

Yoongi is covered in blood by the time he’s done, but he’s satisfied. He would never consider himself blood thirsty. He hated getting dirty. Jungkook and Hoseok were always on this type of job - but if it was something you’d ask him to do (and you had) he had no issues. 

“There has to be another way, hyung.” Jungkook says as Yoongi emerges, soaked in blood. “Flowers or something. You’re covered in blood.”

“Y/N isn’t exactly a normal woman, now is she?” Jin calls from outside. He slams the trunk close. “Though I don’t think she called for so much blood shed.”

Of course, however, Yoongi wasn’t going to listen. He was told to handle the problem and the only way he knew how was bloodshed. 

“Who’s coming with me?” Yoongi questions.

“Now?” Jungkook lifts his brows. “You don’t want to change first?”

“No.” Yoongi deadpans, his eyes narrowing. He glances around to the faces of his brothers. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Have you asked for anything in return of Y/N yet?” Jin asks. “Don’t you think you need a little…more?” Yoongi swallows. He shrugs his shoulders.

“There can’t be any rivalry, anymore. Not on Bangtans end, right?” Jimin shrugs his shoulders. “Why not join forces again? It would save all of us a headache.”

“And Y/N could relax, as well. She’ll have our help and won't have to lead alone.”

The quiet part doesn’t need to be said aloud, Jin thinks. Having you closer meant that Yoongi would be more at ease. 

“I have plans.” Yoongi answers. “You know I cannot go to Y/N empty handed. I have to do what she asks first.”

“Of course.” Jimin shrugs one shoulder. “Do you need any more help, hyung?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I’ll deal with the rest alone. We should get whatever product we have back to the warehouse.”

“I agree.” Hoseok nods. “Bangtan and Death Row nearly lost millions in profit because of…what do they call themselves?”

“Who cares?” Yoongi snorted - because after today, there wouldn’t be any of them standing to utter their name.

Yoongi’s seats are leather and of course the blood would surely stain them, but he doesn’t care. He could get another car if it came down to it. He was on a mission; a hunt. He wouldn’t go back to you empty handed like he promised and he has five names on the list who he had to deal with prior to returning to you.

You know of Yoongi’s presence immediately. You hadn’t talked to him much in the week that it took for him to handle the problem. Your driveway is long and it allows you enough time to walk down the staircase and meet him at the door after you buzz him in.

From the large, oval-shaped window you can see Yoongi get out of the SUV, door slamming behind him. He appears relaxed, glasses over his eyes. There’s a breeze in the air that causes his dark tresses to dance in it. It’s nearly an hour before sunset and Yoongi’s skin glows beneath the orangey tint that makes your heart leap.

Your eyes tear away as he begins to gather something from his passenger seat. Your eyes turn to the large mirror in your foyer and ponder if what you were wearing was appropriate. This was Yoongi, after all, and though it’s been years, he’s seen it all already. That, and you weren’t exactly expecting him tonight so the nightgown shouldn’t appear as trying too hard.

You meet Yoongi at the door, opening it just wide enough for you to see him and vice versa. 

“Y/N.”

“Yoongi.” you respond. “You could’ve had me meet you at the warehouse.”

Yoongi knows you aren’t upset with his presence here. Your eyes glance down to his hands, now noticing his left is holding a small, leather bag and his right a bouquet of flowers.

Glancing back up at Yoongi, you furrow your brows.

“Can I come in?” Yoongi asks, voice cool and relaxed. 

You open the door wider and Yoongi takes his invitation. As the door closes behind him, Yoongi turns to face you. Your nightgown is black and silk and he notices it hugs your curves perfectly, but he didn’t come here to dwell. 

“Why are you holding flowers?”

Yoongi holds out the bouquet for you, his own eyes matching the stoicness of your own. 

Your hands are trembling when you grasp them, an embarrassed jolt flowing through your body. You avoid his gaze.

“I handled our problem.” Yoongi speaks first. He lifts the small, leather bag and holds it with both hands. He slowly opens it - as if to build tension and anticipation. “And they are no longer a threat.”

Yoongi doesn’t care for these men, but you were an empathetic person. He knows you’d want to know more about these men, and what better way than to find out who they truly were than by checking their fingerprints?

Severed thumbs sit inside the small bag right on top of ice. You could laugh right now at how cheesy Yoongi can be at times. Slowly, he closes the bag and tilts his head.

“They’re a small organization that holds no real power.” Yoongi goes on. 

“Are they dead or just missing fingers?”

You’re positive you know the answer. Yoongi wasn’t one to allow anyone to walk free - especially if it concerned you.

“Dead.” Yoongi shrugs. There’s a small table in the foyer that Yoongi places the bag on. His eyes meet yours and a smile appears on his lips. “You’re still wearing the necklace.”

Your palms squeeze the bouquet. Licking your lips, you shrug. “It was a gift, was it not?” 

You turn on your heels, making your way the opposite way and towards the kitchen. Yoongi follows you, allowing his eyes to wander your body freely as now it was just you and him.

You had a vase around here somewhere so you can put these flowers in. 

“I suppose I owe you.” you say over the running water. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on you right now and there’s a bit of excitement that runs through you.

“Do you?”

You turn the water off and turn around, vase in hand. You go towards the island and begin to place the bouquet of flowers, one by one inside the vase. Yoongi notices a small grin on your lips as you assemble them to your liking. 

“You still like sunflowers.” Yoongi notes. “I’m glad that hasn’t changed.”

Yoongi recalls the time you said that you didn’t prefer roses as they were often clique. Yet, you also never received flowers before as you weren’t in the lifestyle to receive them from anyone - not unless it was on a gravestone. But you stated that if anything, you’d prefer sunflowers.

Your hands slide off of the bouquet and you face him. Yoongi is watching you watch him. “I haven’t thanked you.” you murmur softly. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to.”

You step closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He must’ve showered right before coming here as he smells entirely too clean; not a complaint in the slightest. 

“Of course I do.” you murmur. “You helped me with my problem.”

“You knew I would. That’s why you came to me.”

You don’t need to respond as he was correct. You always knew Yoongi would do what you ask - which made going to him easier for you. It was a guarantee that he would get it done with no questions asked; everytime.

“How long can you stay?” you question, eyes blinking up at him. Your fingers dance on the back of his neck softly.

“However long you’d have me.” Yoongi hums, his nose touching yours. ”What are you trying to give me?”

You swallow, lifting so your lips were ghosting his. “Whatever you want.” you murmur.

“Whatever?”

You nod your head, eyes slowly closing. You’re expecting his lips to meet yours in the same passionate kiss you and he shared a week prior. Instead, Yoongi pushes himself away from you, his warmth immediately gone.

Slowly, your eyes open to find Yoongi going through his pant pockets. “Yoon-”

Your mouth immediately shuts when Yoongi’s fingers take out a small, square box. He opens it, the diamond ring shining back at you. It’s oval cut with surrounding smaller rings around the base. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss as Yoongi begins to lower to his knee. “Get up.”

“What?” Yoongi furrows a brow. “Why? Isn’t this what girls typically want?”

Your eyes widen and you stare at Yoongi as if he’s insane. He had to be.

“You thought I wanted you to get on your fucking knees with a ring?!”

Yoongi blinks. 

You jerk your neck, waiting for a response.

“Y/N,” Yoongi coughs, cheeks dusting red. “will you-”

“No!” you hiss, your hands forming fists and body heating up. You yank Yoongi’s shoulders and force him onto his feet. “What-”

“I was trying to be romantic.” Yoongi snaps the ring box close and sighs. “Jin told me-”

“Your first mistake was listening to Jin.” you grumble with rolled eyes.

“My first mistake was assuming you’d listen to me.” Yoongi retorts. “I don’t want to just fuck you as payment, Y/N. You aren’t some whore.”

You were growing nervous underneath Yoongi’s gaze. 

“I want Bangtan and Death Row to be allies again.” Yoongi continues. “I want us,” he waves his hands between the two of you. “to be…more.”

“There is no us.” 

Yoongi doesn’t blink when the words leave your mouth, but he visibly stiffens. 

“There can’t be.”

“Why not?” Yoongi protests. “Am I not good enough for you? I’m only good when you want to use me?”

You’re taken aback by the venom in Yoongi’s voice. He never spoke to you in such a tone.

“Do you not know how many men I’ve killed for you?” Yoongi hisses. “I drop whatever I’m doing to come to your beck and call and you’re going to tell me that there isn’t anything between us? That there can’t be?”

You’re unsure how to respond, but Yoongi is already stepping closer. His presence, until now, has never been threatening to you. His eyes are wide and angered and they’re directed towards you.

“It’s not you-”

“If you say it’s not you, it’s me,” Yoongi chuckles bitterly. “I might just scream.”

“It is me, Yoon.” you hiss. “I…you want me to be a fucking housewife. I don’t even know how to cook-”

“I do.” Yoongi shrugs. “Do you think I don’t have enough money for a private chef?” he scoffs.

You bite the inside of your lip.

“I…I don’t even clean-”

“Isn’t that what’s the maid for?” Yoongi shrugs his shoulders again. He wasn’t going to allow you to excuse yourself from anything you’d say.

“I-”

“I don’t care what you can or cannot do, Y/N.” Yoongi interrupts. “Have I not proved myself worthy to you for years now?”

“It’s not about…” you trail off, closing your eyes and letting out a soft sigh. “...you know it isn’t about that.”

“Then please enlighten me, Y/N.” Yoongi’s frustration was seeping through. He felt as though his head was going to explode. “You know how I feel about you. You know I love you.”

Your eyes flutter open to look at Yoongi’s. His stoic eyes stare right back at you. 

“You know I love you.” Yoongi repeats, voice softening. “So why won’t you allow me to take care of you? You don’t even want to do all of this.”

Yoongi knows you like the back of his hand. He understands that you were brought into this life to one day take over an entire syndicate, even if it wasn’t something you wanted. Your father’s death came entirely too sudden and overnight, you had to grow up and handle it all. But he knows the real you.

“You think jumping straight to marriage is what I want?” you couldn’t help but snicker. 

Yoongi straightens his shoulders. “Probably not.” he admits, shrugging a bit. “You told me that you wanted to be married before.”

“When I was a dumb teenager?” your lip twitches. “I-”

“You told me you wanted to go on a date and experience a normal life. Outside of this.” Yoongi interrupts. “So let’s do it.”

“Do what?” You blink.

“Go…on a date?” Yoongi clears his throat. There’s a tint of redness forming onto his cheeks. 

“You’ve never asked a girl on a date before, have you?” you scoff, but you’d be lying if you said your own cheeks weren’t warm. 

“And you’ve never been asked on a date.” Yoongi retorts, a grin forming onto his lips. “So we’re one of the same.”

For a moment, you and Yoongi are silent as the two of you stare at one another. Your body is warm, your heart fluttering stupidly like it had when you were a teenager whenever Yoongi was around. It involved sneaking around a lot to assure your father never caught on to what you were doing.

You bite your lip, taking a deep breath. What could go wrong?

“I guess…a date wouldn’t hurt.” you murmur.

“Good.” Yoongi couldn’t help the smile that forms onto his lips. “How about now?”

“Now?” your eyebrows lift. That didn’t give you enough time to procrastinate in your closet if Yoongi was already here waiting for you.

“What could go wrong?”

Turns out, a lot could go wrong on a date.

For normal people, a lot could’ve been the restaurant being booked for hours. Or traffic. Maybe even cancelling on the other person.

However, you and Yoongi weren’t normal people. A normal dinner date turned into an ambush entirely, bullets flying past the two of you in such rapid speed that it took a second too long for Yoongi to even be prepared for it. 

“It’s just my shoulder.” Yoongi grunts, a hand against his bleeding wound. He was breathing heavily, his right hand - the same side he was just shot in - currently holds the gun. 

“I fucking hate you.” you seeth at Yoongi, a look of pure panic on your face. Your own heart was beating rapidly and tears brimmed your eyes. “I told you I should have brought my gun you idiot-”

Another shot rings out, this time from Yoongi. You’re unsure how he’s managing to still fire from behind the car while bleeding out.

It was Yoongi’s idea for you to not bring your own protection for once. He stated that you wouldn’t need it - an attempt to slowly wean you off of your mafiosa lifestyle that you were born into. Now you were regretting believing his words - not because you never felt safe around Yoongi, but it was also about helping Yoongi when he was in need.

“Give me the gun.” you demand, wiping your pathetic tears away. Why were you on the verge of crying when you were you? 

Yoongi glances at you, frown deepening.

“Y/N-”

“I wasn’t asking.” you hiss. Yoongi had managed to take down two men, but there were still two left sending out shots - and you were beyond pissed.

Yoongi hands you his gun with a stoic expression. You had sense called your own men for backup and knowing Bangtan, they weren’t far behind. You are unaware if the men that ambushed you had more on the way and quite frankly, you didn’t want to stay to find out.

You’re crouching around the car, gun in your hands. Your eyes zone in on one man behind another car, his eyes set on where Yoongi is behind his car, waiting for another shot to give out.

You scoff, raising your gun and closing one eye before shooting. The bullet shoots right through his head, blood splattering as his body falls limp.

“You assholes ruined my fucking date!” you hiss angrily, aiming the gun at the other shooter, hitting him right in the shoulder. As his gun drops, you rise to your feet and begin to storm towards him.

Yoongi wouldn’t consider himself a completely dominant man. He was alright with having a woman by his side as an equal -  a woman like you. You knew how to lead just as much as he did. His eyes watch the way your heels click against the concrete as you storm towards the huffing, bleeding man. Your eyes are glaring directly at him, hand pointing the gun right into his face.

“Please-”

Yoongi jerks when the gun slams against the man's face and he’s sent flying against the concrete. His breathing increased - this wasn’t the time. His pants grow tight as he watches you continue to slam your gun against his face. He licks his lips at how amazing your legs looked from here - how your dress makes your ass appear even greater.

Yoongi exhales, getting up from leaning against his car and making his way towards you. His shoulder is throbbing and he was bleeding at an alarming pace but it was nothing he’s never felt before.

“Who,” SLAM. “the fuck” SLAM. “are you” SLAM. SLAM. “working for!”

Blood shoots from the man's mouth and Yoongi is close enough to wrap a hand onto your waist.

“If you keep beating him he won’t be able to talk.” Yoongi murmurs, but he admits you look entirely beautiful when you are aggressively upset. “Hoseok can’t be far. Him and Jungkook would get the information out of him.”

“Fuck.” you hiss one last time before slamming the gun against the man's already bloodied and bruised face. “We gotta stop the bleeding-”

“I’m fine.” Yoongi shakes his head with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“You’re obviously not fine, Yoongi.” you deadpan, turning to him. “I can see the blood dripping from your shoulder. Do I look like an idiot?”

Yoongi’s lip twitches and he holds back a laugh. He doesn’t want to appear as if he was taking you for a joke - he wasn’t. 

Tires squeal to a stop and Yoongi turns his head to the sound of it. Just as Hoseok and Jungkook arrive, so do a few of your own men. 

“What do we have here?” Hoseok asks, slamming his car door open and his eyes roam around the bloodied scene. 

“Looks like we have a bigger problem than stolen product.” Jungkook answers. He’s holding rope in his hands. 

“Miss.”

One of your men come besides you, his eyes examining you. ‘“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.” you murmur. Jungkook was wrapping the man - who’s in and out of consciousness, with the rope. “Clean this mess up.” you say, putting Yoongi’s gun back on safety. “And figure out who these motherfuckers are. Immediately.”

“Yes.” 

Yoongi swallows, his eyes roaming to the way your hips sway as you walk towards his car and open the backseat. You’re ripping apart your own cardigan for him to wrap his shoulder for the time being.

Yoongi watches you as you walk back towards him, taking the ripped cloth towards his shoulder. He’s silent, but he’s upset that the date has been ruined. For the first time, you and he had the chance to be normal for a few hours - and it was ruined by reality. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Your eyes glance up at Yoongi as you tighten the cloth underneath his arm pit. He was lucky that the bullet didn’t penetrate through.

“Why are you apologizing for being shot?” you murmur. Hoseok and Jungkook had speeded down the road and your men were in the middle of cleaning the mess. 

“I wanted for us to go on a date.” Yoongi snickers. “And be normal for once in our lives.”

“It isn’t your fault that we’ve made enemies.” you pat his shoulder gently, your lips forming a small grin. “It comes with the job.”

Yoongi’s tongue coats his lips, feline-like eyes watching you still. “You’re very beautiful, Y/N.” he says, tone deep. “Especially when you’re angry.”

You roll your eyes. “Pull yourself together, Yoongi.” you say. “You’re the only man that gets horny after being shot.”

“Ignore the fact that a bullet grazed me.” Yoongi says. He begins to follow you back to his car. “And concentrate on the fact that I can appreciate the way you handle a gun and beat up men.”

Yoongi rounds the corner to plop down into the driver seat. He notices your eyes on him. You want to speak up and offer to drive, but you don’t - you know he’s going to deny it.

Within a half an hour, you and Yoongi are back in your home. You have him seated on your couch while you tend to his wound. Hospitals were always out of the question which is why there were paid medics on hand. Yoongi, however, refused to see anyone. Instead, he’s chugging a bottle of whiskey as you dab a rag soaked in alcohol onto his wound to disinfect it.

“You’ve gotten yourself drunk in under an hour.” you deadpan with a shake of your head.

Yoongi, eyes glossy, tilts his head. 

“I wished you would’ve gotten yourself checked out-”

“Y/N,” Yoongi interrupts you. He takes another swig of whiskey, the burning sensation dying down. “will you marry me?”

You dropped the rag onto the couch beside him and sigh. “You’re on that again.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer.” Yoongi grumbles, his eyes squinting at you.

“You’re going to force me into marriage?” You’re amused now. Drunk Yoongi was always funny. His shoulders would relax and he’d let loose more than he was when he was sober.

“Of course not!” Yoongi gasps, then hums. “...I would just keep asking until you said yes.”

Your fingers tap lightly against his shoulder as you smile his way. It causes Yoongi’s heart to jump and he takes another swig of whiskey in an attempt to hide his red cheeks.

“Yoongi…?” you murmur, your fingertips stopping at Yoongi’s neck. He’s warm, and when he feels your fingers against his bare skin, the hair on his body rises. 

“Y-Yes?”

Yoongi wants to shoot himself in his good shoulder for stuttering like he was a school boy.

Your fingers dance up the side of his cheek to touch the scar. It’s embedded into his skin, smooth to the touch. “It seems like everytime you’re with me, you get hurt.” 

Yoongi craves your touch. He settles his cheek against your palm, glossy eyes watching you.

“Who says I’m hurt?” Yoongi responds. 

Your fingers trail along his scar and he recalls the day it happened - the way your father had slashed his eye as a mere warning. He recalls the way he screamed as blood trailed down his face, but even then he didn’t care about the pain that caused the half of his face to throb. He hears your cries and pleads for your father to leave him alone.

“If it means being with you, I take whatever.” Yoongi shrugs.

Your thumb traces Yoongi’s lips now, not realizing just how close you and he are. You missed being this close with him. It reminds you of when you were younger when life was a bit easier.

“What are you scared of exactly?” Yoongi speaks. He softly nuzzles himself closer to you. If he was sober, he would’ve felt a bit of pain coming from his shoulder. “Do you think I cannot protect you? I’ll die-”

“Yoongi, please shut up.” you press your thumb against his lips to silence him. You let out a soft giggle. “Everytime you get drunk, you go into a drunken speech of passion.”

Yoongi makes a sound with his throat. 

You sit a bit straighter before going to sit into his lap. Your dress rises up a bit and instantly, Yoongi’s hands place themselves onto your thighs. He rubs his hands against your soft thighs, a low moan coming from his lips. 

“We can talk about marriage later.” you say. Your nose rubs against his. “For now, let me thank you.”

Yoongi’s cock is dangerously hard against your clothed pussy. His breathing increases when your lips kiss the corner of his lips, teasing him. 

“I know I can be a handful.” you murmur against his skin, your hips rolling. 

Your lips press against his softly, but Yoongi is determined to taste you entirely. He deepens it, his nails digging into your hips to keep you perfectly in place. Your lips are so soft and sweet, your gloss tasting like mangos. Your perfumed aroma captivates him entirely and he doesn’t want you to move away from him.

Yoongi’s lips are covered in your gloss when your lips remove to breathe. His lips press against your chin to your jaw. 

“It’s okay.” Yoongi kisses along your neck now. “It’s good I have two hands, right?”

The kissing grows heavy. Your hands rub along his chest while his hands roam up and down your sides. Your hips continue to jerk needily to feel more of him.

Yoongi is grateful for the alcohol running through his system so that he could appreciate you fully without feeling any pain. His cock is already painfully erect and waiting to be let free to feel you - but he’ll wait for the right time. His tongue pokes out to run along the smooth skin of your neck, dipping lower and lower.

“I’ve wanted to take this dress off of you since you put it on.” Yoongi says, muffled against your skin. His tongue runs along your collarbone and goes down to your breast. 

“You could’ve had me naked hours ago.” you retort, head rolling back when you feel Yoongi’s warm tongue reach your breast. “But you wanted to waste time on a date.”

“It wasn’t a waste of time.” Yoongi retorts. His hands roam upwards to touch the straps of your dress and begin to pull them down. “I want to take you on many dates and show you off. Show everyone who you belong to.”

Yoongi was a possessive person and even without stating it aloud, he has claimed you as his countless times. When the straps fall down, his breath hitches at the sight of your bare breast. Your nipples are erect and both of his large hands grasp them entirely.

“I’m yours?” you scoff, yet you continue to roll your hips. Your right hand places itself above Yoongi’s. “I didn’t agree to marry you.” “You don’t have to.” Yoongi responds quickly. “You can keep denying me, but I’ll never allow another man to have you.”

Yoongi’s tongue wraps onto your erect nipple, rolling it against his tongue. He suckles needily, wishing he could do this forever - be in this blissful scenario where it was just you and him and no one else to interrupt it. Or shoot at him.

“I’ve killed for you already.” Yoongi says when he allows your nipple to pop from his mouth. “If I can’t have you, no one can.”

You bite your lip. That obviously is a red flag in itself. Yoongi had threatened countless men - a part of Bangtan and Deathrow - and had killed for you, both requested or not. If you were a normal girl living a normal life, it would frighten you how obsessive he could be.

But you established that you weren’t normal and neither is he. You were both born into this world of murder, drugs, sex and trafficking - so it excites you that Yoongi doesn’t go down without a fight.

“You can be happy with me.” Yoongi wraps your other nipple into his mouth. He pinches your free nipple between his index and thumb. Your hand roams his dark tresses, keeping him close against your chest. Your pussy is throbbing, Yoongi’s own hips meeting you halfway as you’re grinding.

“I can give you the wedding you wanted. I can give you the babies you’ve talked about.”

Yoongi’s hands wrap around to unzip your dress. He then proceeds to slide it down your bare back, shuddering at your naked skin. 

“You’d look so pretty pregnant, Y/N. It’ll be hard to get you to stay at home and not pistol whip anyone,” Yoongi jokes, tugging your dress down. “but it can be done.”

You roll your eyes, but Yoongi’s words cause that familiar throb between your legs.

“You think about getting me pregnant a lot?” you raise a brow.

“Of course I do. Don’t ask me dumb questions.”

Yoongi forces you up to remove your dress. It falls onto the ground by your feet. Your panties are basic cotton grey and it’s easily able to see the wetness right between your legs.

“You’re already so wet, Y/N. Your pussy wants to feel me.”

Yoongi’s cocky, his fingers cupping your pussy entirely to feel just how wet you are. He licks his lips, groaning. “You want to be bred, Y/N. You’re just stubborn.”

Yoongi begins to tug at your panties hastily. His mouth salivates. He hasn’t tasted you in years and being a patient man has done nothing but make him insatiable.

“You want to get me pregnant so bad, Yoongi. You’re a bit too obsessed.”

“You know that, right? Is that why you constantly tease me?” Yoongi dips his fingers between your wet folds. He shakes his head at just how sopping wet you were. “You roll your hips, talk to me a certain way.”

“I talk to you like a dog.” you deadpan, a soft moan releasing immediately after.

“And that’s what I love about you.” Yoongi brings his fingers into his mouth and grunts.

Yoongi pushes you onto the couch and falls onto his knees. He had to taste you.

You yelp when your legs are forced apart and Yoongi immediately begins to devour you. He’s completely starved, having missed your touch and taste for years. He doesn’t care about being quiet - you and he were alone. He suckles and smacks his lips against your wet pussy without a care in the world.

You’re squealing loudly as Yoongi’s head bobs back and forth. Your hand grips his hair, eyes watching as he devours you. His right hand forces your thigh down forcefully. You’re unsure how long you wanted Yoongi between your legs - more ways than one - and having him here now is entirely liberating. 

“That feels so good, Yoon.” you whimper, your pussy clenching around nothing. You wished it was stuffed with his cock and he bred you just like he said he wanted to.

Yoongi knows it does. He recalls the times he would eat you out without expecting anything in return - just because he loved the way you tasted and how hard you’d cum from his tongue alone.

Yoongi places two fingers into his mouth for a moment before inching them closer to your hole. His tongue then twirls onto your clit, eyes flickering up to watch your reaction. Your mouth opens in a gasp, back arching a bit. 

Your pussy immediately squeezes around his fingers and he begins to pump. His tongue continues to twirl onto your clit for added pleasure, determined in letting you cum. 

Your hands grip your breast and your eyes are fluttering close. Your hips grind a bit, thighs shaking. 

“Y-Yoon…!”

Yoongi chuckle, lifting from your clit. His lips and chin are coated in your arousal. “Yeah, baby?” he asks, tone sultry. “Does it feel good?”

You nod your head, swallowing. 

“Your fingers feel so good.”

Yoongi continues to pump, feline eyes watching your every move. The way you’re gasping every few moments. Your eyes fluttering open and close, your thighs quivering and shaking.

“You’re going to cum already, aren’t you?” Yoongi chuckles a bit, biting his lip. “You’ve been bottling everything up for so long that it only takes you about 5 minutes to cum all over my fingers.”

Fuck Yoongi and the way he was right about you. You had consumed most of your time running Deathrow that you hadn’t allowed yourself any true release. Your fingers could only do so much, and your vibrator could only stay charged for so long. It wasn’t the same as having a man fuck his fingers into you so vigorously -  as if he’s getting direct pleasure from it.

“That’s right, baby.” Yoongi marvels at the way your juices coat his palm that he adds another finger. You’re wet, pussy making sloppy squelching sounds. “Cum all over my fingers, Y/N. You’re finally being such a good girl.”

Who knew you had a praise kink?

You let go just as Yoongi intends. You weren’t expecting the pressure from deep within you to be released all over him, shooting out the clear liquid all over him and the floor.

Yoongi chuckles, releasing his fingers from your throbbing pussy. “You made such a mess. I knew you would.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, your chest rising and falling.

“I want to ride you.”

Yoongi’s eyes shoot up at your sudden change of tone. “Oh?”

You nod. You weren’t a rider - you never enjoyed it. Yoong did, however, enjoyed taking the lead. This time you wanted to have a bit of control. You needed to hear him moaning for you; because of something you were doing for him.

Before Yoongi can say anything else - not like he was going to deny you anyways - your hands grasp onto his shirt. You bring him closer to you so you can wrap your legs around his waist and flip him onto his own back.

Yoongi is amused by how easily you handle him. Dare he even say attracted by your sudden actions. You hover above him so you can undo his pants and slide them down to reveal his covered cock. It’s twitching angrily, ready to be set free and taken advantage of by you.

“Your cock is still pretty.” you state when you tug his briefs down. His cock springs out, oozing pre-cum from a pink tip you want to wrap your mouth around. But that’ll wait for another time. You don’t allow Yoongi the time to react before you grab it with your soft, yet firm hand. You center yourself.

“Fuck, hold-”

Yoongi grunts when you sit on him completely. His legs shake a bit at feeling you bare wet pussy squeezing him.

“Oh..shiiit.” Yoongi hisses out. He swallows thickly, his eyes fluttering a bit.

You smirk. Yoongi was a simple man indeed.  You’d have to show him what you’d learned over the years - mainly though porn as the thought of being with another man repulsed you. You were a certified man hater unless it was Yoongi; the man that wasn’t officially your man, but still is in theory.

Your feet planted itself onto either side of him and your arms wrapped around his neck. Your hips rise and fall in rhythm, his cock hitting your sweet spot with each bounce.

Yoongi’s large hands immediately fall onto your ass, squeezing them into his palms. He doesn’t care how needy he sounds with his whimpers and moans - he wasn’t embarrassed to show you how good you were.  He’s happy that he has the chance to feel you again - the tightness of your pussy, the flesh of your ass. Your breast bounces in his face and the sight is entirely heavenly that if he were to die right now, he would be content.

Content until Yoongi thinks that with him gone, you’d be vulnerable in the world and he immediately takes it back.

“You’re fucking yourself so good, baby.” Yoongi couldn’t help but to slap your ass and then immediately squeeze the flesh as you continued to bounce on his cock. His lips connect to the flesh of your breast, kissing along them as he curses to himself.

“Your cock feels so good, Yoongi.” you moan in his ear. You’re surprised by your own stamina - but having his cock in you after years of denying him for whatever pathetic reason was possibly why. Your pussy clenches and unclenches with each pounce, your clit rubbing against his skin for added friction.

“Yeah?” Yoongi’s teeth grazes your right nipple. “Your tits are so amazing.” he says, finding that your bouncing breast in his face was pure bliss. “I’ve waited so long to feel your pussy around me. You kept teasing me over and over again.”

Another slap onto your ass has you squealing - and clenching. Yoongi does it again to feel your pussy squeeze his cock again; and again and again until you can feel the flesh throbbing.

Yoongi’s hands squeeze your ass to keep you in place, his mouth wrapping onto your nipple. He begins to thrust upwards, pounding into you with such greed. Your skin slapping against his echoes off the high ceilings, your high-pitched squeals added onto that for added flavor.

Yoongi’s eyes flutter upwards, feeling entirely too blissful. His thrusts are powerful - so much so that he needed to feel you deeper. 

Yoongi flips you onto your back, slamming you against the leather couch without much warning. He forces your legs apart so he can see just how wet you were for him, dripping all over his cock.

“Look at that.” Yoongi chuckles, continuing his brutal pace. 

It’s disrespectful, even, the way Yoongi fucks you. But neither of you care. He plunges his cock so deep into you that you can swear you feel him in your stomach, and even then you’re only begging him for more. 

Drunk Yoongi was a different Yoongi, at times  - but he was the same man that craved you entirely. His hands - a part of him that you always admired for how large, veiny and beautiful they were, clasp onto your shoulders. His dark eyes stare right into you, pounding his cock in and out of you.

“You’re so d-deep.”  you gasp, your toes curling when he hits that same sweet spot that only he could ever reach.

“I gotta be deep if I’m going to get you pregnant.”

Why was that so tempting?

Damn Yoongi and his dirty talk - along with his fucked out expression and deep, husky voice. How could you not want to be bred by him when he looked this good? The scar just added onto his attractiveness.

“I-I’d like that.”

Yoongi groans. “Yeah?” his eyebrows knit. “You want my baby but won’t marry me?”

Yoongi’s hands squeeze your shoulders tighter. Your back arches a bit at the added touch.

“Want my fingers. My tongue. My cock.” One hand lifts from your shoulders to your face, his thumb tracing your lips. “My babies…but won’t give me the satisfaction of marriage.”

You whimper at the familiar bubbling in your stomach.

“Stop-”

Yoongi pushes himself away from you. He’s standing, pulling your body with him so that your lower half is fully in his embrace. He drills into you at the same alarming pace and you’re only forced to watch helplessly moaning.

“Yoon-g-gi!”

Yoongi wasn’t going to spare you - not when you felt so good. Not when you were making such sweet noises.

“Marry me, Y/N.” Yoongi demands, a thumb placing onto your throbbing clit and twirling vigorously. “Whatever you want, you got it. Do I need to kill ten more men for you?”

Your hands squeeze onto nothing. You don’t recall Yoongi being this much of a aggressive fucker but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love every moment of it.

“Yoon-”

“Yes or no, baby? Don’t you want those babies we talked about?”

You did - damn Yoongi for making you want babies you hadn’t thought about in years.

“They’ll be so cute. I want a little girl just like you to spoil.” Yoongi’s thumb continues to tier; harshly onto your clit. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, a loud groan coming from your throat.

“I’m gonna cum,” you gasp out, wanting to squirm away from his possessive embrace.

“Are you going to marry me or not?” Yoongi grumbles, replacing his thumb with four fingers. You were milking his cock so well, arousal dripping from your pussy to your thighs and around his cock. He wished he had a camera to capture such a beautiful moment.

“Yes!” 

You were cumming, but Yoongi didn’t care about that right now. You had finally agreed to marry him - and maybe it was the orgasm talking, but he took it serious enough to continue twirling your clit until you’re leaking all over the place. And even then, he continues fucking into your pussy greedily until he’s cumming in you, shooting you with warm ropes of cum.

You’re exhausted at the end of it all - an hour and a half and three orgasms later. Your pussy is leaking cum from Yoongi, who’s insatiable but satiated at the moment. The fucking went from the livingroom, to your bedroom. Your eyelids are heavy and all you wanted to do was sleep.

“Yoongi?”

It was ten minutes later when you spoke to the man. He’s wide away, seemingly coming down from his drunken state.

“Hm?” Yoongi says, cigarette hanging from his lips. 

“We should probably talk.”

Your eyes are still closed and your voice is full of sleep.

“Maybe after you’ve rested-”

“Give me the ring.”

Yoongi is silent as he inhales the smoke, the familiar burning sensation hits his throat.

“I’m not going to ask you again.” you say, eyes still closed.

Yoongi does as you say. He had the ring tucked in his jacket pocket just downstairs and when he retrieved it, you held out your hand for him to put it on. Your eyes finally open to inspect the ring and how it looks on your finger.

Yoongi doesn’t speak, and neither do you. It was like that at times with the two of you. Instead of saying anything, you glance at him hovering above you and tuck your hand underneath your face and close your eyes.

What’s understood doesn’t need to be said, but Yoongi can feel the way his heart jolts at the silent agreement.

dad to be!jimin who sang to your tummy every night. he read somewhere that music soothed children in the womb or something like that, and of course he wanted your baby to have a passion for music just like you two did. he already discussed to you endlessly about the instrument lessons he wanted to put your child in.

“how about piano? we could use a pianist in the family. i think guitar would be good as well, and namjoon could teach them how to write-“

“baby,” you’d interrupt. “can the baby please get here first darling?”

dad to be!jimin who researched EVERYTHING he needed to know prior to you going into labor. he researched contractions, teething, postpartum care, what foods the baby should eat, breastfeeding, everything. he didn’t joke when it came to raising the baby correctly, or caring about you the way you needed.

dad to be!jimin who insisted that you didn’t lift a finger during your pregnancy. he’d cook, clean, do the laundry, do the dishes, drive you, everything. he’d even beg for you to allow him to bathe you. (which you protested but always failed to get through to him). even when you exercised, he kept a close eye on you, making sure you didn’t overwork yourself.

dad to be!jimin who broke into tears once he found out you were pregnant. he called his parents, your parents, the bangtan boys, army, even his manager knew. the pride and joy in his life was being blessed enough to be the father of your kids. he couldn’t deny that when he was reminded of the family you two were growing, he became more emotional as time went on.

dad to be!jimin who never let you forget that you were his first baby. your health came first. every checkup and doctor visit, he paid close attention to everything the doctor said. he gave you extra water, fruits, as much medicine as you needed, and stressed the fact you needed rest constantly.

dad to be!jimin who always reminded you that he was blessed to experience this with you. to him, pregnancy was the ultimate gift to him. the love of his life giving birth to his very own child exuded the ultimate display of love. you loved him enough to go through the pain for 9+ months to deliver his sweet baby boy/girl who would be a spitting image of you both.

“i’m so proud of you love, my sweet baby. i can’t wait to be a father. there’s no one else who’d id rather experience this with,”

dad to be!jimin who cuddled you the second you finished giving birth. he held you close, stroking the sweat off your forehead and kissing your flushed cheeks. he calmed you down, rocking you to bed against his chest until he waited for the doctors to finish running tests on your newborn.

“you did so well darling, i love you so much. thank you so much, you did amazing sweetheart,”

dad to be!jimin who shortly after getting familiar with caring for your baby, started talking about having another one. he wanted a large family with you. as many babies as you were willing to push, he was willing to care for. and to be honest, you were willing to give him as many children as he wanted. at night once the baby was finally asleep, he’d hold you closer. rubbing his palms against your beautiful stretch marks, reminding you exactly how beautiful you were and how much he would love to go through this experience once more.

“i think our baby would like a little sibling soon. don’t you think? how many mini-us’s can we bring? you know you look sexy pregnant right?”

you’d roll your eyes at his comment, smirking as you did so. truthfully so, despite all the pain the labor was, jimin made the experience better. and you were willing to go through all of it again for your husband.

a/n: this was req by a few followers, it’s lowkey a filler post until my series comes out so i hope u enjoy!

You slowly twirled, a movement practiced a thousand times over, effortless and elegant. Your legs extended with fluid grace, your eyes mirroring the depth of the music, and your posture remained flawless as you commanded the stage. As the final notes slowly faded, you offered three deep bows and stepped back just as the velvet curtain fell. The thunderous applause followed you all the way backstage, where your teacher and peers stood waiting.

"Brilliant as always, my dear," the head mistress praised. You tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a soft blush warming your cheeks and neck as you offered a gracious smile.

You were the theater's reigning prima ballerina, the singular force that sold out every tier of the house, night after night.

Stepping into the quiet sanctuary of your dressing room, you began unlacing your satin pink gloves. The moment the door swung open, your eyes immediately found the vanity table. There it sat, a pristine bouquet of white roses, tied with a heavy black silk ribbon. Every bloom was immaculate, perfectly cultivated and fresh, looking as though they had been hand-plucked from a private conservatory moments ago.

A quiet, familiar smile touched your lips.

For the past ten years, ever since your debut, these flowers had awaited you. Every single performance, without fail, they appeared on your vanity like clockwork, a silent testament to your artistry.

There was never a card, never a name.

In the anxious hours before a show, you always resolved to catch whoever left them. Yet, amidst the chaos of backstage preparation, the mystery slipped away, leaving the bouquet to feel like a deeply personal, exclusive ovation upon your return. You had questioned the theater staff countless times, but the answer was always the same.

no one had seen a soul enter the room.

As you carefully lifted the bouquet from the vanity, the door burst open.

"Tell me he proposed this time."

You barely managed to steady your hands to keep from dropping the flowers as your closest confidante, Mina, swept into the room, the tulle of her costume rustling with her dramatic entrance.

You rolled your eyes, maintaining your composure. "For the last time, Mina, there is no he."

Mina snorted, collapsing onto the plush velvet sofa with practiced theatricality. "Please. A decade of flowers? White roses? Imported white roses, might I add. Whoever your mystery gentleman is, he is either hopelessly devoted or entirely mad."

You busied yourself setting the stems into a heavy crystal vase, arranging them with meticulous care. "It could very well be a woman," you countered.

Mina raised a single, perfectly sculpted brow. "A woman with the patience to send flowers for ten years without demanding your attention? Even the most dedicated patroness would have requested a proper introduction by now. No, it is a man, without a doubt."

"He could be an old patron," you murmured, keeping your gaze fixed on the blossoms.

"An old patron does not track your schedule after every single performance for a decade."

You offered no retort, simply because Mina was not entirely wrong.

The flowers had evolved into a sacred ritual. On grueling nights when rehearsals stretched into the early morning hours and exhaustion settled deep into your bones, the thought of returning to your dressing room sustained you. You looked forward to the roses. To the heavy black ribbon. To the silent, enduring reassurance that somewhere in that cavernous, darkened auditorium, someone had come solely to watch you move.

Mina caught the subtle shift in your expression immediately. A faint, private smile had touched your lips as you stared down at the white petals, genuinely wondering for the first time if a man truly sat behind the gesture.

"Oh my God."

"What?" you asked, defensive.

"You fancy him."

"I do not even know his name."

"Exactly," she declared, leaning forward. "You have fallen in love with a bouquet."

A sudden heat rushed to your cheeks. "Be quiet, Mina.”

°

The following week found you in the grand rehearsal hall, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflected every precise, fluid movement of your practice.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors swung open, and your head mistress marched in, clutching an official parchment that bore a prominent, gilded seal.

"Y/N!" she exclaimed, her usual stern demeanor giving way to pure excitement. "You have been personally selected to perform at the Cornetthe!"

The room erupted. The other dancers cheered and applauded, but the sound felt distant as your eyes widened in sheer disbelief. To take the stage at the Cornetthe was the pinnacle of a dancer's career—the very dream you had bled for since you first laced your slippers. Every grueling hour, every bruised ankle, and every late-night rehearsal had been a quiet dedication toward reaching that sacred stage.

You caught Mina in a breathless embrace, a rare, uncharacteristic giggle escaping your lips as you jumped slightly.

Beneath the artistic triumph, however, a wave of profound relief washed over you. A performance at the Cornetthe commanded an exorbitant fee—wealth that would change everything. Your first thought flew instantly to your younger sister.

She was approaching the age to enter a proper university, and after losing your parents five years ago, the weight of providing for her had fallen entirely on your young shoulders. Every performance had been a means to ensure her security. Now, you could finally buy her the fine dresses she deserved and secure her tuition without a second thought.

"Miss Y/N?" a maidservant called out softly, knocking on the open door frame.

You stepped back from the huddle, smoothing your leotard. "Yes?"

"A parcel has just arrived for you, miss." She carefully placed a structured box onto a nearby mahogany table and offered a polite dip before withdrawing.

"A gift?" Your brow furrowed slightly.

Your head mistress gave a knowing, proud nod. "Rest now, and prepare yourself. The official itinerary will be dispatched shortly." With a final, encouraging pat on your shoulder, she swept out of the hall, taking the rest of the company with her.

Left alone with Mina, you approached the table, your curiosity piqued. The box was wrapped in immaculate, heavy cream paper and bound with a thick, silk black ribbon.

Your heart skipped a beat. The texture, the precise knot, the deep midnight shade—it was identical to the ribbons on your bouquets.

"Oh?" Mina gasped, instantly appearing over your shoulder with a delighted giggle. "Is this from your phantom suitor as well?"

"No... how could it be?" you whispered, your hand hovering over the silk.

"Of course it is! Look at the ribbon." Mina gently lifted the edge of the bow. "Did he send this to congratulate you on the Cornetthe?" she asked, her eyes wide with realization.

A chill, both thrilling and unnerving, raced down your spine. "How could he possibly know I was selected? I only just found out myself…”

You carried the elegant box home with you that evening, keeping it tucked securely under your arm. Once you were safely behind the closed door of your bedroom, the quiet of the small apartment enveloped you.

The room was modest but entirely yours, decorated in soft, faded pink wallpapers, walls adorned with vintage ballet posters, a simple iron-frame bed in the center, and a wooden dressing table positioned right by the window.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, you finally untied the black silk ribbon and peeled back the crisp cream paper.

Inside lay a pair of opera-length gloves.

A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest. You lifted the silk-lined fabric, tracing the exquisite craftsmanship with your fingertips. The material was impossibly supple, carrying the distinct weight and flawless sheen of haute couture—the kind of luxury born from elite ateliers, far beyond what your standard wages could ever afford.

"Oh..." A soft breath of wonder escaped your lips.

You carefully slid them onto your hands, the fabric hugging your arms like a second skin. Turning toward the vanity mirror, you offered a small, private smile. As you leaned closer, your eyes caught a glimpse of something remaining at the bottom of the box.

It was a small, heavy cardstock note. On it, written in sharp, elegant calligraphy, was a single letter:

J.

Your breath hitched. J?

A hundred questions flooded your mind. Who was he? An aristocrat? A quiet fixture in the grand tier boxes?

Your gaze drifted to the vase on your windowsill, where the white roses from last week’s performance were basking in the evening twilight. A flush of heat warmed your cheeks as you approached the vanity, your fingers gently brushing against the cool, velvet petals.

Could it truly be a man? A gentleman who had watched you from the shadows for an entire decade, quietly celebrating your triumphs from afar?

You leaned in, carefully pressing a single petal to your lips to inhale the faint, sweet fragrance, your heart racing with a feeling you couldn't quite name.

°

Tonight, the veil of secrecy would finally be torn away.

The decision had been solidified the precise moment your eyes opened that morning.

As the wardrobe mistress fastened the final, delicate pearl button of your bodice, your gaze drifted toward the heavy oak door of your dressing room. Soon, if a decade of tradition held true, another immaculate bouquet of white roses would materialize upon the marble vanity, bound in that signature black silk.

Ten years.

Ten years of unyielding devotion, delivered in silence.

You had spent countless evenings painting a portrait of him in your mind. Was he a distinguished patron of the arts? A reclusive aristocrat? Someone who had caught a fleeting glimpse of you on stage a decade ago and remained forever captivated?

Tonight, speculation would end.

"Places in ten minutes, ladies!" the stage manager’s voice boomed down the corridor.

Instantly, the backstage area erupted into a flurry of motion as dancers hurried toward the wings, the ribbons of their pointe shoes trailed by the scent of powder and resin. You followed the tide, your steps clicking softly against the lacquered floorboards.

Then, you paused.

This was your moment.

Murmuring a swift excuse to a passing ballerina, you slipped away from the throng, turning down a narrow, dimly lit servants' corridor that looped back toward the private dressing rooms.

The theater was eerily tranquil here, insulated from the grand auditorium. The distant, muffled hum of the audience settling into the velvet tiers echoed faintly through the stone walls, sounding like a rising tide.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with stage fright.

As you neared your door, your pace slowed to a breathless crawl.

The door was ajar, a sliver of warm candlelight spilling across the threshold.

Someone was inside.

Holding your breath, you pressed closer, peering through the gap.

A gentleman stood before your vanity.

He was exceptionally tall, carrying an aura of effortless, old-world elegance. Even from behind, his presence was commanding; broad shoulders filled out a tailored charcoal overcoat, the exquisite cut unmistakably born from a master artisan. Dark, lustrous hair, perfectly styled, brushed the high collar of his coat.

In his gloved hands, he held the familiar, pristine arrangement of white roses.

With an almost reverent tenderness, he leaned forward and placed them upon the vanity table.

By all accounts of propriety, you should have pushed the door open. You should have demanded his name.

Instead, you remained entirely frozen, captivated.

The gentleman’s gaze swept slowly across the private sanctuary of your room. Then, his hand moved. Deliberately, he reached out for the pale silk shawl you had discarded across the chaise after morning rehearsals.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He lifted the delicate fabric with astonishing gentleness, his long fingers smoothing over the silk before bringing it toward him. For a fleeting, suspended second, he closed his eyes, inhaling the faint trace of your perfume that lingered in the threads.

A quiet, nearly imperceptible sigh escaped his lips.

It was a sound heavy with contentment, longing, and an absolute, unshakable devotion.

A sudden chill raced down your spine, yet it was entirely devoid of fear. The sheer intimacy of the gesture should have horrified a lady of your upbringing. Instead, an intoxicating warmth unfurled deep within your chest, accompanied by an inexplicable thrill that rooted you to the floor.

Who was this ghost?

As though catching the subtle shift in the air, his eyelashes fluttered.

You startled, stepping back.

At that exact moment, the grandfather clock at the end of the gallery began its deep, resonant chime.

Eight o'clock.

The curtain was rising. Your performance was beginning.

A wave of panic supplanted the spell. Without another thought, you gathered your tulle skirt and hurried back toward the stage, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs as you fled into the shadows.

You missed the way the gentleman turned slowly toward the doorway moments later. His dark eyes fixed upon the empty corridor and no one was there.

You barely managed to take your position before the heavy velvet curtains parted.

As the orchestra began its swelling overture, your body moved instinctively. Years of rigorous, unforgiving training guided every graceful extension and precise turn, yet tonight, your thoughts refused to be disciplined.

Because it had been a man.

Not a collective phantom, nor some frail benefactor hidden behind a wall of distant philanthropy.

A man.

An exceptionally handsome man.

Even now, as you floated effortlessly across the stage, the memory of him burned vividly in your mind. The pale, luminous quality of his skin beneath the warm amber lights of your dressing room. The sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw. The immaculate black coat that seemed tailored to him like armor. There had been something distinctly regal about his bearing—an effortless, innate elegance that could not be bought or taught.

And then, there was the way he had lifted your shawl.

The absolute reverence in the gesture.

The quiet, desperate sigh that had escaped him as he inhaled your scent.

A strange, intoxicating warmth spread through your chest, contrasting sharply with the cool stage air. Somewhere among the hundreds gathered in the darkened auditorium tonight, he was watching you. Watching, just as he had for the past ten years.

Your heart stuttered in its rhythm.

Without meaning to, breaking the strict discipline of your art, your eyes drifted toward the upper tiers.

And found him.

Seated entirely alone within a shadow-drenched private box, he looked almost ethereal amidst the gilded gold moldings and crimson velvet. Dressed in midnight black, he sat with effortless poise, one gloved hand resting lightly against the brass railing. His dark eyes were fixed solely on you.

It was as though he had been waiting for you to look.

The precise moment your gazes locked across the vast expanse, a violent shiver danced down your spine. You nearly faltered, your foot slipping a mere fraction of an inch on the lacquered wood before you recovered with practiced grace.

Throughout the remainder of the performance, your eyes sought him again and again, drawn by an irresistible gravity.

And every single time, he was already watching.

The sheer intensity of his unwavering focus should have unsettled you. It should have felt invasive. Instead, it made your skin prickle pleasantly beneath the layers of silk and satin.

Tonight, you danced differently. More passionately. More intimately. It was as though the grand theater had emptied entirely, leaving only the two of you locked in a silent dialogue.

When the final, dramatic note echoed through the hall and thunderous applause erupted from the stalls, you stepped forward to take your bows. Instinctively, your gaze rose toward the private box one last time.

He was still there, a solitary silhouette against the crimson backdrop.

Unable to help yourself, you allowed the smallest, rarest smile to grace your lips before lowering your head in a final, sweeping bow.

A smile meant for him alone.

°

The moment the heavy velvet curtains fell and the final, echoing wave of applause washed over the stage, you were already moving.

Ignoring the bewildered calls of your fellow dancers and the stage manager’s sharp reprimands, you gathered the voluminous tulle skirts of your costume and hurried through the labyrinth of backstage corridors. Your satin pointe shoes slipped precariously against the highly polished marble floors, but you didn't slow your pace.

You didn't stop to change into your street clothes. You didn't stop to wipe away your stage makeup. You only knew one undeniable truth: you had to catch him.

The crisp, cool evening air bit at your bare shoulders as you burst through the grand proscenium entrance of the theater. A line of pristine luxury automobiles lined the cobblestone curb, their chauffeurs waiting patiently beneath the warm pools of golden streetlight.

Your eyes frantically scanned the departing high-society crowd. For one agonizing, terrifying moment, you thought you had missed him entirely.

Then, your gaze locked onto a silhouette.

Standing beside a sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce, one gloved hand resting lightly on the open carriage door, was the gentleman from your dressing room.

The moment his eyes found you, he froze completely. It was the first time his unyielding composure faltered, as though he had never, in ten years, anticipated you coming after him.

And for the first time, in the clear clarity of the lamplight, you truly saw him.

He was utterly breathtaking.

The soft, ambient glow of the theater facade illuminated features so striking they appeared chiseled from marble. Dark, lustrous hair perfectly framed an impossibly handsome face, his pale skin luminous against the deep black of his cashmere overcoat.

Every inch of his bearing exuded quiet wealth—not the loud, vulgar ostentation of the newly rich, but the effortless, understated elegance that only generations of old money could cultivate. The exquisite cut of his tailored suit alone likely cost more than your entire season's salary.

For a few suspended moments, neither of you spoke, the city sounds fading into a hum between you.

Gathering the remains of your courage, you took a step closer into his space. "It was you."

The gentleman regarded you with a calm, guarded intensity.

"The flowers," you continued, your fingers clutching the delicate silk edge of your bodice. "You have been leaving them for me. For a decade."

Something entirely unreadable flickered across his dark eyes, gone as quickly as it had arrived. "I believe you have mistaken me for someone else, Miss."

You stared at him, incredulous. "Mistaken you?" you repeated, your voice breathless. "I saw you in my dressing room. Not an hour ago."

A faint, ghost of a smile touched the corner of his lips. "I was merely returning a misplaced item."

"My shawl?" you challenged softly.

He inclined his head with impeccable, aristocratic politeness. "Precisely."

"Then the flowers?"

"The theater receives many wealthy admirers, mademoiselle. I am merely one of many."

A profound confusion swirled within you. He had been caught. You had witnessed his reverence with your own eyes, yet he stood before you now, maddeningly composed, offering a flawless mask of denial.

"Who are you?" you finally whispered, the question escaping before you could stop it.

For the very first time, a genuine trace of hesitation crossed his striking features. He looked at you, really looked at you, before speaking.

Before you could press further, his chauffeur stepped forward, holding the rear door fully open. Jimin turned back to you and offered a small, old-fashioned bow—impossibly elegant, a gesture from a bygone era.

"Congratulations on tonight's performance, Miss. Your Giselle was entirely exceptional."

Your breath caught completely in your throat. You had performed Giselle only three times in your entire career, years ago.

By the time you managed to gather your scattered thoughts, he had already slipped into the darkened luxury of the vehicle. The heavy door closed with a muted thud, and the Rolls-Royce glided effortlessly into the London mist, leaving you standing beneath the theater lights, draped in tulle and satin, entirely captivated by a phantom who finally had a name.

°

The moment the heavy car door clicked shut, insulating him from the cool night air, Jimin finally exhaled.

He looked down. His hand was trembling.

He stared at his fingers in quiet, clinical disbelief. Trembling.

Park Jimin—heir to one of the realm's oldest and most formidable fortunes, a man who had negotiated multi-million-pound acquisitions before the age of twenty-five without so much as a flicker of unease—sat entirely paralyzed in the plush leather backseat of his vintage car. All because a breathless ballerina had looked into his eyes and spoken to him.

"It was you."

Her voice reverberated through the quiet luxury of the vehicle, soft, accusing, and achingly beautiful. For ten long years, he had composed this exact confrontation in the private theater of his mind. Yet, in all his carefully orchestrated scenarios, it had never once unfolded with him completely stripped of his armor, utterly defenseless against her gaze.

"Home, sir?" his chauffeur inquired, his voice a low, deferential murmur through the glass partition.

Jimin offered a curt, absent nod, his eyes still anchored to his uncharacteristic tremors.

She had looked at him. Truly looked at him, past the high society facade and the tailored armor of his overcoat. And at the end of her performance, before she offered her final curtsey to the auditorium, she had smiled.

The memory alone was enough to throw his highly disciplined heart into utter disarray.

As the gas lamps and misty London streets blurred past the tinted windows, Jimin let his forehead rest against the cool glass, allowing his mind to wander back to the absolute genesis of his ruin.

Ten years.

A decade ago, he had been dragged to the annual Winter Arts Gala solely to satisfy the unyielding social obligations of his grandmother. He had been nineteen, cynical, detached, and wholly indifferent to the arts.

Then, she had stepped onto the stage.

She was seventeen then. Nervous. Exquisite.

He remembered every microscopic detail of that evening with terrifying clarity: the pale blue tulle of her practice costume; the slight, endearing tremor in her hands before the conductor raised his baton; the exact moment, midway through her variation, when her anxiety evaporated and she surrendered entirely to the music, a radiant smile transforming her features.

Jimin had been unable to draw breath. He had never truly looked away since.

Over the years, his quiet observation had deepened into an intimate, unspoken understanding. He knew her favorite composer was Tchaikovsky. He knew she considered Swan Lake’s Pas de Deux the pinnacle of romance, and that she invariably listened to Debussy in the solitude of her dressing room before opening nights.

He knew that when she was terribly anxious, she would absentmindedly twist the silk ribbons of her pointe shoes around her slender fingers until the knuckles turned white.

He knew, because he was always there. A silent, permanent fixture in the shadows of the grand tier boxes.

The white roses had begun a mere week after that initial performance. At first, they were a gentleman’s anonymous tribute to a rising star. Then, they became a sacred tradition. Eventually, they became a necessity, the only way he knew how to breathe.

When her academy scholarship had mysteriously faced revocation due to clerical politics, an anonymous endowment had materialized the following morning. When the theater company suffered devastating budget cuts, private donations quietly restored their funding. When she suffered that agonizing ankle injury during her third season, a world-renowned specialist had arrived at her side within hours, his exorbitant fees settled by an untraceable account.

She never knew. She was never intended to know. The Park name carried a weight that would have suffocated her pure artistry, and he refused to let the cynicism of his world touch the sanctuary of hers.

By the time the Rolls-Royce glided through the wrought-iron gates of his family’s country estate, the trembling in his hands had finally subsided. Almost.

Jimin moved through the sprawling, ancestral mansion in absolute silence, ignoring the distant servants and passing beneath the stern gazes of painted forefathers lining the marble corridors. He walked until he reached the isolated corridor of the west wing—his private sanctuary.

With a heavy brass key, he unlocked the reinforced oak doors and stepped inside.

The room belonged entirely to her. It was a museum of a life preserved in meticulous, breathless devotion.

Framed programs from every single performance she had ever given lined the silk-paneled walls. Ticket stubs, obscure newspaper critiques, and candid photographs filled silver-gilt frames. In illuminated glass cases lay the retired costumes auctioned off for charity, purchased through proxies and restored by master tailors with painstaking care. Another display held every pair of satin gloves she had ever discarded in the theater bins, neatly pressed and preserved.

At the absolute center of the room hung an immense, breathtaking portrait.

Her. Painted in the dramatic, tragic costume of the White Swan. Timeless. Pure. Utterly untouchable.

Jimin stopped before it, his hands clasped behind his back in his habitual aristocratic posture. Ten years ago, he had merely thought her beautiful. Tonight, looking at the canvas, he realized he could no longer remember what his life had even looked like before her existence defined it.

His dark eyes lingered on the painted lines of her face, remembering the years of sorrow the canvas couldn't capture. He remembered the year she lost her parents; the heartbreaking performances where she danced with hollow, grief-stricken eyes and a forced, fragile smile.

He remembered the agonizing months she vanished from the playbills entirely, and the fierce, protective pride that had swelled in his chest when she returned—thinner, quieter, but possessed of a profound, unbreakable strength.

He had watched her leave rehearsals early, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion as she rushed home to raise her younger sister alone. He remembered the precise night she had finally smiled with genuine warmth again on stage.

Jimin had kept the program from that evening in a separate, velvet-lined drawer. It remained his most treasured possession.

Slowly, modern restraint warring with a decade of suppressed longing, Jimin raised his hand. His long fingers hovered just inches away from the painted edge of her cheek.

"Who are you?"

Her voice lingered in the quiet room.

He closed his eyes, a low, disbelieving laugh escaping his chest. He still could not entirely comprehend the reality of the evening. She had confronted him. She had demanded to know his name.

And for the first time in a decade, his silent devotion no longer felt entirely confined to the shadows.

°

You arrived at the theater nearly an hour earlier than usual that evening.

You told yourself it was because you wished to rehearse the difficult adagio alone before the company arrived. Nothing more. It was certainly not because a certain dark-haired gentleman had occupied your thoughts with alarming, relentless persistence over the past three days.

Stepping into the quiet sanctuary of your dressing room, you carefully hung your heavy wool coat before settling before the illuminated vanity mirror. For several moments, you simply stared at your reflection, the quiet hum of the empty theater vibrating through the floorboards.

Then, moved by a sudden, inexplicable impulse, you bypassed your usual stage cosmetic and reached for a different lipstick. A richer, deeper shade. A soft, flush-toned rose.

Your brows furrowed in the mirror. Why were you making such an effort?

The answer came unbidden, striking a chord deep in your chest.

Because he will be there.

Heat immediately flooded your cheeks, staining your skin a natural crimson. It was entirely ridiculous. You had exchanged barely a handful of words with the man in the damp night air, and yet...

Your gaze drifted toward the elegant opera-length gloves resting atop the mahogany vanity.

You hesitated only briefly before lifting the supple fabric and slipping them on. The silk embraced your arms flawlessly, smooth and impossibly luxurious against your skin. Even now, you could scarcely believe they belonged to you, or that his hands had chosen them from some exclusive atelier.

"You look unusually lovely today."

You nearly jumped as Mina entered the room, her tulle costume draped over one arm. She stopped short, her sharp eyes immediately narrowing as she took you in. "Is that a new lipstick?"

"No," you lied softly, turning your face away.

"And the gloves?"

"They're old."

Mina folded her arms, a look of profound skepticism crossing her features. "You are a terrible liar, my dear."

You busied yourself with adjusting your pearl earrings, refusing to meet her gaze. "I simply felt like wearing them tonight."

"Hm." Mina's lips curved into a knowing, maddening smile. "Waiting for someone, perhaps?"

Your heart stumbled in its rhythm. "What? Of course not."

Mina's smile only widened. "You've glanced toward the door six times since I walked in."

"I have not."

"You absolutely have."

You turned away completely before she could dissect your expression any further. Thankfully, the call for places echoed down the corridor moments later, rescuing you from her interrogation.

The familiar, cold pre-performance nerves settled over you as you took your position in the wings. Yet tonight, beneath the customary anxiety, another feeling thrummed quietly in your veins. Anticipation.

As the heavy velvet curtains rose and the golden stage lights bathed you in their artificial warmth, your eyes instinctively sought the grand private boxes in the upper tier.

And there he sat. Exactly where you had expected him to be.

He was entirely alone, dressed impeccably in black, looking like a prince of the old world. The gilded, baroque surroundings of the theater only seemed to sharpen his quiet elegance. One gloved hand rested lightly against the crimson velvet-lined railing as he watched the stage with unwavering, absolute attention.

He was watching you.

Your breath caught in your throat. For a fleeting, dangerous moment, you forgot the conductor, the orchestra, and the hundreds of spectators in the stalls entirely. Then, the music swelled, and your training took over.

Tonight, however, you danced differently. Every pirouette felt lighter, as if gravity had lost its hold on you. Every extension was executed with a desperate, fluid grace. Again and again, as the choreography allowed, your gaze drifted upward toward the shadows of the box.

And every single time, you found his dark eyes already fixed upon you. Steady. Intent. Devoted.

The sheer intensity of his focus should have unsettled a lady of your propriety. Instead, it sent a delicious, intoxicating shiver down your spine. You found yourself smiling more, performing not for the critical eyes of the directors hidden in the stalls, but for him alone.

When the final, dramatic note faded into the rafters and thunderous applause erupted throughout the grand hall, you bowed deeply, your chest heaving from exertion. As you straightened, your eyes lifted instinctively to the upper box one last time.

He remained in his seat, a solitary figure amidst the standing ovation, simply watching.

Unable to help yourself, you allowed the faintest, most private smile to grace your lips—a fleeting gesture no one else in the crowded theater could possibly notice.

But he did. You knew he did.

With your heart fluttering wildly against your ribs, you hurried toward your dressing room the moment the curtains fell, eager to escape the backstage chatter.

You pushed the heavy oak door open.

And there they were. The white roses. Pristine, dew-kissed, and waiting for you on the marble table.

A breathless smile blossomed across your face before you could stop it. Setting the heavy bouquet closer to the light, your fingers caught on something white tucked deep amongst the velvet blooms.

A card.

Your hands trembled slightly as you unfolded the heavy, cream cardstock. Written in that sharp, elegant calligraphy you had seen once before were just four words,

The gloves suited you.

— J.

For several seconds, you could do nothing but stare at the ink, the breath trapped in your lungs.

He had noticed. Amongst hundreds of spectators, beneath dazzling, blinding stage lights and layers of theatrical costume, he had recognized the very gloves he had gifted you.

A deep, warm blush spread slowly across your cheeks and neck as you pressed the note to your chest. Your mysterious patron finally had a name, and your world would never be the same.

°

Nearly an hour later, the grand theater had finally emptied.

The excited, melodic chatter of the corps de ballet had long faded from the galleries, replaced by the distant, rhythmic thuds of stagehands dismantling the evening’s scenery. In the vast auditorium, the soft, amber hum of the single ghost light illuminated the abandoned stage, casting long, romantic shadows across the velvet stalls.

You packed your belongings with slow, deliberate movements, carefully wrapping the silk ribbons of your pointe shoes before placing them into your satin bag. Yet, before zipping it shut, your gaze was drawn back to the heavy, cream-colored card resting atop your mahogany vanity.

A profound, intoxicating warmth bloomed within your chest despite your best efforts to remain disciplined. You quietly slipped the card into your vintage purse, snapping the clasp shut.

The moment you stepped through the heavy oak exit of the theater, the sheer violence of the elements greeted you.

It was a torrential downpour. Heavy, unrelenting sheets of water swept from the midnight sky, drumming a fierce rhythm against the marble steps and the ornate, neoclassical stone façade of the building. The city beyond the courtyard had dissolved into a mesmerizing blur of silver and gold reflections beneath the storm.

You let out a soft, defeated sigh. No umbrella. Truly perfect.

Resigned to wait out the tempest, you stepped back beneath the deep, sheltered architecture of the grand portico, hugging your wool coat tighter around your frame to ward off the damp chill.

Then, the low, aristocratic purr of an engine interrupted the steady roar of the rain.

A sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce glided silently through the mist, coming to a flawless halt directly before the portico steps. Your heart stumbled, a sudden, frantic pulse leaping into your throat.

The heavy rear door swung open. And he stepped out.

Tonight, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal cashmere overcoat layered over a bespoke black evening suit, he looked every bit the unapproachable patrician you had imagined. Mist and stray droplets kissed the broad, commanding line of his shoulders, yet his bearing remained entirely unbothered by the squall.

He was exceptionally tall—far taller than you had realized in the fleeting chaos of your first encounter. It was the kind of height that seemed to effortlessly master whatever space it occupied. He was elegant, intimidating, and flawlessly beautiful. Every sharp plane of his face and the quiet, innate confidence of his movements whispered of an inherited, ancient wealth.

His dark, luminous eyes swept upward through the rain, settling instantly upon you.

"Miss Y/n."

Your breath caught in your throat, the sound of your name on his lips feeling far too intimate. "You... you know my name."

A faint, nearly imperceptible smile ghosted across his lips. "I have watched you perform for a very long time. It would be impossible to not know."

An immediate, breathless heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he knew. He had a decade of your history memorized.

With practiced grace, he opened a large, black silk umbrella, stepping out into the deluge to close the distance between you. He ascended the marble steps, bringing the shelter of the umbrella over you, effectively cutting off the rest of the world.

"You will never find a carriage or make it home in this weather," he noted, his voice a low, melodious baritone.

You glanced helplessly at the sheets of rain obscuring the street. "I shall manage, I'm sure."

"You won't."

You blinked, looking up at him. There was no arrogance in his declaration—only a quiet, absolute certainty that brooked no argument.

"Allow my chauffeur to drive you home," he murmured, his gaze holding yours.

"Oh, no." You immediately shook your head, your fingers nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as propriety warred with desire. "I could not possibly impose upon your evening, sir."

"It would be entirely no imposition."

"I really do not wish to be a trouble to you."

For a brief, suspended moment, his dark eyes slowly swept over your figure. Beneath his deliberate, heavy attention, you became acutely, agonizingly aware of your appearance.

You had changed out of your heavy stage costume, opting instead for a soft, blush-pink satin tea dress that fell elegantly around your silhouette. Beneath his quiet scrutiny, the delicate, fluid fabric suddenly felt embarrassingly exposed, as though he could perceive every erratic beat of your heart.

"You could never be a trouble," he said, his tone dropping an octave, softening into something dangerous. "Besides, I would much rather not leave you standing here in the dark alone."

Your heart betrayed your outward composure with a violent flutter.

A few moments later, the spell was cast, and you found yourself seated beside him inside the luxurious, insulated cabin of the vehicle. The interior was a sanctuary of old-world opulence, rich cream leather, highly polished walnut paneling, and soft, amber ambient lighting that kept the shadows close.

And him.

His presence immediately enveloped the enclosed space, carrying a distinct, intoxicating scent. Sandalwood, rare cedar, and something deeply rich and masculine. You found yourself helplessly inhaling the fragrance before forcing your lungs to still.

"Forgive me," you said quietly, the silence between you stretching thin and heavy with unsaid words. "I only know you as... J."

His eyes flickered toward you in the dim light, a sudden depth in their corners. "J?"

You reached into your purse, your fingers tracing the crisp edges of the cardstock before retrieving it. "The note. From..."

Understanding dawned in his expression, a quiet satisfaction relaxing his features. For a moment, he simply looked at the elegant script held between your slender fingers. Then, finally, he spoke the word.

"Jimin."

The name settled with an exquisite, warm resonance inside your chest. "Jimin," you repeated softly, testing the syllables.

He looked away first, his eyelashes casting long shadows against his pale cheekbones. "You may call me that."

As the car glided forward into the rainy night, you reached across your lap for the seatbelt, but your fingers, still trembling slightly from the sheer proximity of him, fumbled awkwardly with the clasp.

"Allow me."

Before you could offer a word of polite protest, Jimin leaned across the narrow space separating your seats.

Your breath caught entirely.

He was suddenly, breathtakingly close. The world narrowed to the mere inches between your faces. At this distance, you could perceive the tiny, delicate mole resting just beneath his left eye, and the impossibly long, dark sweep of his lashes. He was close enough that his warmth radiated against your bare collarbones, close enough that his scent became an overwhelming, dizzying wave. Your lungs entirely forgot how to function.

With a deep, resonant click, the heavy metal seatbelt locked into place across your lap.

Yet, neither of you moved.

For one agonizing, suspended second, the only sound in the universe was the frantic, uneven rhythm of your breathing and the heavy patter of the rain against the glass. His dark eyes rose, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your skin prickle with a delicious, terrifying thrill. His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a heartbeat before rising back to your eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, Jimin withdrew, returning to his side of the carriage, though the charged air between you remained thick enough to cut.

"Comfortable?" he asked quietly, his eyes never truly leaving you.

You could only nod, entirely unable to trust your own voice.

By the time the car left the city limits, the rain had only grown heavier.

Thick curtains of silver lashed against the heavy glass windows, reducing the world outside to little more than blurred lanterns and shadowed silhouettes. You had expected Jimin’s chauffeur to pull up outside your modest apartment complex. Instead, nearly forty minutes later, the vehicle turned sharply through towering, intricate wrought-iron gates.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Beyond them stretched a long, winding driveway lined with ancient oak trees, their grand branches swaying violently beneath the force of the storm. Soft, low-voltage amber lights illuminated perfectly manicured hedges and marble fountains, guiding the way toward an estate so magnificent that, for a moment, you genuinely believed you had stepped into a different century altogether.

The manor emerged through the mist like a living piece of history.

It was enormous. Built from weathered pale stone and crowned with ivy-covered turrets, it stood proudly atop a gentle hill, every illuminated window glowing warmly against the surrounding darkness. Grand, imposing columns framed the entrance, while towering French windows reflected the jagged flashes of distant lightning.

You simply stared, utterly speechless.

Jimin caught the wonder in your eyes. "It has been in my family for generations," he explained quietly, his tone indifferent, as though he were discussing something far less extraordinary than a palace.

Generations. Of course it had.

In an instant, everything about him fell into place. The bespoke suits. The effortless, innate refinement. The quiet confidence that required no volume. The old-world manners that seemed entirely second nature. Jimin belonged to places like this—places built on time, legacy, and silent power.

The car rolled to a seamless stop beneath the grand portico. Before you could gather your scattered thoughts, Jimin had already stepped out into the damp air, opening his large silk umbrella and extending a gloved hand toward you.

You hesitated only briefly before placing your hand in his. His grip was warm, steady, and incredibly strong. He guided you carefully through the sweeping rain and up the sweeping marble steps, shielding you perfectly from the damp chill.

The enormous, iron-studded oak doors opened before you even had the opportunity to knock.

The grand foyer stole what little breath remained in your lungs. Flawless marble floors gleamed beneath massive crystal chandeliers suspended from impossibly high, vaulted ceilings. Large, oil-painted portraits of stern-looking ancestors lined the walls, their gilded frames catching the soft, flickering glow of antique sconces. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood, old books, and expensive, polished mahogany.

The manor was breathtakingly beautiful. And impossibly silent.

There was no distant laughter. No echoing conversation. No signs of ordinary life. Only the soft, rhythmic echo of your own damp footsteps against the stone.

"Do you live here alone?" you found yourself asking, your voice a small whisper in the cavernous space.

Jimin glanced down toward you, his expression unreadable. "For the most part, yes."

Something about the absolute solitude of his answer made your chest tighten with a strange, sudden ache.

He led you through a series of dim, elegant corridors before finally stopping outside a cozy, firelit sitting room. "I shall have something warm prepared for you immediately," he said, his eyes scanning your bare shoulders. "You must be freezing."

Before you could offer a polite protest, he stepped away briefly, returning moments later carrying a plush, heavy cream towel. He extended it toward you.

You accepted it quietly, your voice catching. "Thank you."

As the fabric transferred between you, your fingers brushed against his. The contact lasted scarcely a second, yet a sharp, electric warmth lingered on your skin long after his hand withdrew.

Shortly afterward, a maidservant entered the room silently, carrying a heavy silver tray. She placed a steaming cup of tea and a crystal glass of water upon the mahogany coffee table before offering Jimin a deeply respectful, practiced bow and departing without uttering a single word.

The room fell into absolute silence once more.

Only you and Jimin remained.

The storm battered softly, relentlessly, against the tall windowpanes. You wrapped the thick towel more securely around your shoulders, suddenly acutely aware of how terrifyingly intimate the situation had become. You were sitting alone, draped in satin, in the heart of his ancestral home. It was midnight.

And sitting directly opposite you was the mysterious man who had spent ten years watching you move through the shadows.

Jimin sat back, impossibly composed as always, his long hands folded neatly over his knee. His dark, piercing eyes met yours across the small expanse, holding your gaze captive.

For a long, agonizing moment, neither of you spoke. Neither seemed willing to break the exquisite, agonizing tension that stretched between you.

For several moments, the room remained suspended in that breathless quiet, the storm outside providing the only tether to reality as it lashed against the tall windows. You cradled the porcelain cup, the heat of the tea seeping into your palms, while your gaze repeatedly drifted to the gentleman opposite you.

Jimin appeared entirely unruffled by the intimacy of the hour. To him, inviting a ballerina he had covertly adored for a decade into his ancestral home seemed as effortless and natural as breathing.

You, meanwhile, felt as though your heart were executing a frantic, undisciplined tempo.

"So," you began, carefully setting the saucer down upon the mahogany table, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. "Who exactly are you, Park Jimin?"

A faint, localized smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "That is rather a broad inquiry, is it not?"

You tilted your head, a touch of playful defiance entering your eyes. "You happen to know practically everything about my life, sir. I think a little reciprocity is only fair."

Jimin leaned back against the plush velvet of his armchair, his dark eyes regarding you with quiet, unmistakable amusement. "And what precisely is it you wish to know?"

"Everything."

The demand earned you a soft, low laugh. The sound startled you; it was the first time you had heard it. It was warm, resonant, and terribly beautiful.

"Everything?" he repeated, the syllables lingering between you.

"Your family. Your position. How you spend your hours when you are not mysteriously materializing in theater wings."

Jimin’s smile deepened, though his gaze remained guarded. "My family has been entrenched in banking and high philanthropy for several generations, Miss Y/N."

"That is all you intend to offer?"

"For the present moment, yes."

You frowned slightly, unconvinced. "And your own pursuits?"

"A little of this. A little of that. I oversee the family's arts endowments."

"That is hardly a proper answer."

"It is the answer I am prepared to give."

You huffed softly, turning your face toward the hearth, which only elicited another quiet, captivated chuckle from him.

"You are a very secretive man, Jimin."

"So I have been told by many."

You turned back, studying the sharp, aristocratic contours of his face under the firelight. "Then tell me this. Why me? Out of all the dancers in city, why have you stayed?"

The question hung heavily in the air, shifting the entire atmosphere of the room. For the first time that evening, Jimin’s composed facade slipped, replaced by a profound, sudden stillness. Outside, a low rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards.

"You truly wish to know?" he asked, his voice dropping to a private, reverent murmur.

You nodded, holding his gaze.

Jimin’s eyes lowered briefly to his elegant, clasped hands before rising to lock onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "The first time I saw you take the stage, I was nineteen years old."

Your pulse quickened.

"It was a minor variation, but halfway through, you smiled," he continued softly, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your face. "In that singular moment, you forgot the grandeur of the hall. You forgot your nerves. You forgot the audience even existed. There was only you, entirely surrendered to the music."

You remained perfectly motionless, captivated by the cadence of his words.

"I have attended countless performances in my life," Jimin murmured, stepping into the memory. "Operas in Paris, symphonies in Vienna, ballets across the world. But until that evening, I had never seen anything so purely beautiful."

A sudden, breathless heat flooded your cheeks. "Jimin—"

"You possess an extraordinary, terrifying gift, Miss Y/N," he interrupted gently, his tone laced with a decade of unspoken devotion. "Your artistry. Your fierce discipline. The absolute poetry of how you move." His eyes softened impossibly. "And you are quite beautiful."

Your breath faltered entirely. No director, no critic, and certainly no suitor had ever spoken of your dedication in such a manner. No one had ever looked beneath the performance to see you.

You lowered your gaze, suddenly fascinated by the intricate gold filigree of your teacup, purely to hide the depth of your emotion. "Thank you," you whispered into the quiet.

A thick, charged silence settled over the room once more. Then, you detected the subtle rustle of fabric.

Looking up, you realized Jimin had crossed the expanse between your chairs. He stopped directly before you, his tall silhouette blocking out the rest of the firelit room. Your heart stuttered violently against your ribs.

Slowly, deliberately, he sank to one knee before your chair, his movements possessing the fluid grace of an aristocrat. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently taking hold of your hands.

"You wore them," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the silk.

"The gloves?" you breathed, your throat dry.

He nodded, his thumb lightly tracing the smooth fabric covering your wrist.

You swallowed hard, the proximity making your head spin. "I wanted to. For tonight."

Something dark and utterly unreadable flashed through his eyes, a hunger mixed with absolute reverence. Carefully, almost tenderly, Jimin began to slide the opera gloves from your hands. He peeled the silk away inch by inch, his touch agonizingly slow, leaving your skin tingling as the cool air of the room kissed your bare arms.

When the fabric was completely discarded, he did not let go. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted your bare hand toward his face.

And pressed his lips softly, lingeringly, against your knuckles.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips. The touch lasted only a second, yet a fierce, intoxicating warmth bloomed from the point of contact, racing through your veins and settling deep within your chest.

Jimin withdrew slowly, his head bowing slightly, though his eyes remained anchored to yours. "Thank you," he murmured against the quiet room. "For granting me that."

Your pulse thundered like the storm outside, a dizzying, reckless thought taking hold of your mind as you looked down at him—that perhaps the rain should never stop, and the carriage should never take you home.

The lingering heat from your earlier proximity followed you like a phantom as you stepped into the corridor, your fingers still tingling from where his skin had pressed against yours. The silence of the manor felt heavier now, charged with a quiet, seductive gravity that pulled the two of you closer with every step.

When the grand double doors swung open, the sheer romance of the room took whatever breath you had managed to reclaim.

The floor-to-ceiling glass ran the entire length of the far wall, a massive canvas of weeping silver and fractured moonlight. Against this backdrop of untamed storm sat the obsidian grand piano, its polished wood gleaming like liquid silk under the amber glow of the chandelier.

"It is beautiful," you whispered, the sound velvety in the vast space.

Jimin did not look at the room. His dark eyes remained anchored entirely to you, tracking the way the soft light caught the exposed curve of your collarbone. "I am glad you think so."

"You play?"

"A little."

You offered a slow, knowing smile, the flush still warm on your neck. "Somehow, I do not believe your modesty, sir."

A low, captivated chuckle escaped him. Crossing the parquet floor with effortless, predatory grace, Jimin settled onto the bench. His tailored charcoal coat parted slightly, revealing the crisp line of his waistcoat. Then, his gaze lifted, heavy and dark.

"Dance for me."

The command sent a sudden, thrilling shock straight to your core. You laughed nervously, the satin of your blush-pink dress rustling as you shifted back a step. "Jimin, I... I cannot simply dance on command. Not like this."

"You can."

The absolute certainty in his baritone felt like a physical touch.

"It is different," you protested softly, your eyes locking onto his. "There is no stage. No grand auditorium. There isn't an audience."

"There doesn't need to be." His fingers hovered just above the ivory keys, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world ceased to exist. "Tonight, I do not wish to share you with a crowded house. Dance for me alone."

The air in the room grew thick, suffocatingly warm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild, reckless rhythm.

"I have already performed tonight," you murmured, a weak defense against the pull of his presence.

"And yet," Jimin said quietly, his voice dropping to a seductive, raspy register as his hands descended onto the keys, "I don't believe you have danced for yourself. Or for a man who truly sees you."

The first chords drifted into the air—rich, melancholy, and achingly beautiful. You froze, your breath hitching. It was your favorite piece, a melody you only listened to in the absolute solitude of your room. Of course he knew.

Slowly, helplessly, you stepped into the center of the room.

At first, your movements were tentative, heavy with a delicious shiver of shyness. But as the dark, swelling rhythm enveloped you, your body surrendered. The fluid satin of your dress clung to your silhouette as you turned, arching your spine with a fierce, desperate grace that was entirely raw.

You forgot the constraints of the theater. You forgot the rules of propriety. There was only the music, the storm, and the man pulling the strings of your soul.

Again and again, your eyes locked onto his across the expanse of the room. Every single time, his gaze was already waiting, burning with an unshielded, intoxicating hunger. It was a look that stripped away the wealthy benefactor and left only a man utterly consumed by what he saw.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. You spun, the pink satin swirling around your thighs like liquid fire.

Jimin’s fingers faltered, missing a minor chord.

The tiny, uncharacteristic slip sent a jolt of pure, wicked adrenaline through your veins. He was affected. Unstrung. Without a word, you held his gaze through your next extension, stretching the movement out, tilting your head back deliberately to let him see the pulse leaping in your throat.

A dark, heavy flush crept high onto his aristocratic cheekbones. His jaw clenched, his hands pressing into the keys with a renewed, fierce intensity.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The dance ceased to be a performance and became something intensely carnal—a silent, breathless conversation between his hands and your body. Neither of you spoke. You didn't need to. The agonizing tension in the room said everything.

When the final, resonant note faded into the rafters, neither of you moved.

The rain continued its frantic assault against the glass. You stood breathless, your chest heaving beneath the satin bodice, a stray lock of hair damp against your cheek.

Jimin remained at the piano, his long fingers still resting on the keys, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own frantic breathing. He stared at you through the shadows, his eyes wild with a decade of suppressed longing, as though he had finally claimed the phantom he had chased for ten years.

And as you looked back at him, your pulse thundering in your ears, you realized you were entirely caught in his web.

Your eyes remained fixed on his, tracking the deliberate, heavy swell of his breathing and the way his tongue swiped across his lower lip as the tension in the room thickened to a suffocating weight. Guided by a reckless, intoxicating impulse, your hand reached behind your back, your fingers catching the small metal tab of your zipper.

With a slow, deliberate tug, the satin parted.

The fluid fabric of your blush-pink dress pooled around your feet, leaving you standing in the center of the polished floor wearing only your delicate, cream-toned silk undergarments.

Jimin’s breath caught completely, a low, ragged sound escaping his chest. The immaculate melody of the piano faltered, a deep chord dropping sharply out of rhythm before his hands instinctively forced themselves back into the notes. His gaze broke away from your eyes, dropping instantly to the exposed, luminous expanse of your bare skin—the curve of your waist, the long, sculpted line of your legs, and the frantic, heavy rise and fall of your chest.

A dark, fierce hunger flooded his features, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle leaped beneath his pale skin. He couldn't believe what his eyes were showing him.

For ten years, he had imagined you in every light, but having you here, in the absolute privacy of his ancestral home, dancing for him half-clothed, felt like a beautifully wicked dream he never intended to wake from.

The final barrier fell away, and your bra slipped from your shoulders, joining the satin pooled at your feet.

Jimin let out a sharp, ragged gasp, the sound echoing loudly through the cavernous music room. The sudden, violent movement of his hands caused his fingers to slam against the keys in a harsh, discordant clash that shattered the melody entirely. The music stopped dead.

He didn't move to start it again. His hands froze over the ivory, his knuckles white as his chest heaved, breathing hard, his lungs starving for air in the suddenly suffocating heat of the room. His dark eyes flared, widening with an unshielded, almost feral intensity as they tracked the unrestricted movement of your body.

The aristocratic mask was entirely gone, burned away by the raw, intoxicating sight of your bare, luminous skin under the amber light of the chandelier.

Yet, despite the sudden silence, you did not stop.

Surrendering completely to the quiet rhythm of the storm, you continued to dance. Every movement became a masterclass in elegant seduction. Without the music, the soft rustle of your bare skin against the cool air and the quiet, rhythmic scrape of your feet against the polished parquet floor became the new melody.

You extended your arms, your spine arching with a fluid, mesmerizing grace that highlighted every taut muscle and delicate curve.

You moved with absolute, unbothered poise, a siren in the shadows of his ancestral home, keeping your eyes locked onto his unstrung, breathless form as you pulled him deeper into your spell.

Unable to endure the agonizing distance a second longer, Jimin stood up. The heavy piano bench scraped sharply against the parquet floor as he abandoned the instrument, his tall silhouette immediately overtaking the dim room.

He closed the distance between you with slow, predatory strides, his dark eyes never breaking contact with yours. As he stepped directly into your space, the sheer heat radiating from his large frame brought your elegant movements to a breathless halt.

He didn't speak. He simply reached out, his long, warm fingers wrapping possessively around your wrist, anchoring you in place. His touch was heavy, trembling slightly with a decade of suppressed hunger.

Without a word, he lifted your bare hand toward his face, his gaze locking onto yours as his lips met the sensitive skin of your wrist.

He kissed you there, a slow, searing press of his mouth that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

Then, he began his ascent. His lips moved seductively against the soft, bare skin of your inner forearm, each kiss deliberate, hot, and agonizingly slow. You let out a quiet, trembling breath, your fingers automatically curling into the crisp fabric of his waistcoat to keep your balance as your knees grew weak.

Jimin’s other hand slid up the curve of your waist, his palm resting firmly against your bare ribcage, his thumb tracing the frantic, erratic rhythm of your heart. He didn't rush. He lingered in the soft crook of your elbow, his tongue tracing a fleeting, intoxicating path upward along the delicate skin of your upper arm.

By the time his mouth reached your shoulder, your head had tilted back, your breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He pressed his lips firmly into the slope where your neck met your shoulder, inhaling the raw scent of your skin mixed with the lingering trace of your stage perfume.

"Ten years," he rasped against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly growl of pure surrender. "Ten years, and you are finally here.”

Jimin’s hand shifted from your waist, his long fingers trailing a slow path up your ribcage before his palm settled gently against your shoulder, applying a firm, persuasive pressure. He guided you downward with a deliberate grace, his gaze holding yours captive until the cool, polished parquet floor met your back.

The contrast of the cool wood against your feverish skin drew a sharp breath from your lips. Jimin hovered over you instantly, his large, tailored frame blocking out the light of the chandelier, trapping you in a sanctuary of his own making.

He settled between your thighs, the heavy fabric of his trousers pressing intimately against you as he braced his weight on one forearm. His free hand reached up, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your damp cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that felt entirely sacred.

"You have completely undone me," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy confession against your skin, his gaze dropped.

Slowly, agonizingly, Jimin leaned down, his breath blowing hot across your bare chest before his lips made contact with the aching fullness of your breast. A soft, breathless gasp escaped you, your fingers instantly tangling into the thick, dark strands of his hair as his mouth moved with a slow, agonizingly seductive intent.

He didn't rush. He traced the soft contour with his lips, his tongue dipping out to leave a searing, wet trail across your skin that made your core ache with a sudden, restless heat.

Every touch was deliberate, designed to unstring you just as you had unstrung him at the piano. When his lips finally brushed the sensitive, tight peak, a quiet, helpless moan broke through the silence of the room.

The sound seemed to fuel the fire consuming him. His grip on your hip tightened, his palm warm and possessive against your bare skin as his mouth trailed across to your other breast, repeating the slow, torturous adoration.

He coaxed another ragged sound from your throat, his name slipping past your lips like a prayer. The storm outside raged on, entirely forgotten, as you melted completely into the bruising, intoxicating reality of his touch.

The sound of your breathing was a ragged melody in the vast, quiet room, entirely matching the heavy rise and fall of Jimin's chest as he remained draped over you. The old-money composure he usually wore like armor had completely evaporated, leaving only a raw, unyielding focus centered entirely on your pleasure.

Slowly, his lips parted over the sensitive peak of your breast. He drew the tight bud into the heat of his mouth, sucking on your nipple with a slow, agonizing rhythm that sent a violent jolt of electricity straight to your core.

Your hips twitched off the polished floor, your fingers tightening frantically in his dark hair as a breathless, fractured moan escaped your lips. Just as the pleasure became overwhelming, his teeth nipped against the sensitive peak—a sharp, wicked bite that made you gasp, your back arching off the wood.

"Jimin..." your voice was a broken whisper, a plea for something you couldn't quite name.

"Shh," he rasped, his breath burning hot against your damp skin. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his dark eyes dilated, heavy with a decade of unshielded desire. "Stay still for me, my darling."

His mouth began a slow, torturous descent, leaving a trail of searing, wet kisses down the center of your ribs and across the flat expanse of your stomach. Every press of his lips was a deliberate worship, making the muscles of your abdomen quiver beneath his touch.

His long, elegant fingers found the waistband of your silk shorts. With a smooth, practiced movement, he slid the final barrier down the length of your legs, casting them aside into the shadows of the parquet floor. You were completely exposed to him now, trembling beneath the amber glow of the crystal chandelier.

Jimin hovered over you, his gaze sweeping over every inch of your bare, sculpted form with absolute reverence. A dark, knowing smile touched his lips as he leaned down, his mouth brushing right against your ear.

"Ten years I watched you under the stage lights," he murmured, his voice a gravelly, deeply seductive purr that vibrated through your entire body. "So perfect. So untouchable. My beautiful Odette..." He pressed a hot kiss to the sensitive skin just behind your earlobe. "My sweet, perfect Odette. You are finally entirely mine."

The name sent a shiver through your veins, blurring the lines between the stage and the reality of his possessive touch.

Before you could gather your thoughts, Jimin slid further down, his large hands cupping the backs of your knees, lifting them slightly to open you up to his gaze. He pressed a lingering, soft kiss to the inside of each knee, his thumbs tracing the long, elegant lines of your calves.

Then, his mouth moved higher.

He kissed his way up the soft expanse of your outer thighs, his touch maddeningly slow, before his lips moved inward. His hot breath fanned across the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, ghosting over the heat gathering between them.

As his mouth pressed firmly against the tender flesh just inches from your core, a soft, helpless cry broke from your throat. Your thighs clenched instinctively around his broad shoulders, your body turning entirely slick and wet with a desperate, heavy ache that demanded everything he had to give.

Jimin slowly parted your thighs, his eyes fixated on your slick folds as he could smell the tender perfume of yours, the one he gets from your clothes and bag everytime.

He pressed his nose against your folds, slowly inhaling the pure flowery scent of your mound. You arched slightly, feeling the graze of his soft lips against your folds, aching to be kissed by him.

He held your thighs apart, enjoying himself slowly. "I can't believe you are real." He whispered yet again. You whined in response and moved closer to his mouth. He pressed his mouth against your folds, slowly sucking on your folds and licking the inside of your folds, slowly giving a long lick down to your wet hole.

You moaned out his name, feeling the ghost of touch of his mouth everywhere suddenly as he latched his lips against your mound. Your eyes rolled back in utter pleasure. "Jimin...." You gasped.

Jimin slowly kitten licked your clit, flicking it with his tongue few times before rubbing your enterance with two of his fingers. He circled it, spreading the wetness everywherre. You were a mess of moans and gasps, tugging his hair and arching into him.

He slowly pulled up. He felt a protective instict looking down at you. Under him, naked and a mess, leaking all over his floor for him. He was so turned on. You were his ruin. His obsession. He slowly dragged his eyes down your squirmy body and unbuckled his belt.

He wanted to ruin you. Make you his wholly. Make you feel the very obsession he has with you.

You gasped as you saw the tent forming in his pants. He removed his pants and boxers, his cock sprung free with pre cum leaking. Your mouth watered.

Your lips parted slightly. He fisted his cock and rubbed the pre-cum to your clit and slowly pushed inside your hole. You gasped, feeling him everywhere. Your eyes rolled back. It burned but it felt so good.

Jimin groaned, feeling how warm and welcoming you were, he almost lost it. You were his pure happiness and right now he was on cloud nine. He watched your reaction, the way your eyes watered, the way your chest panted up and down and the way your nipples were begging for attention. He leaned down and licked your nipples, sucking them slowly into his mouth and nibbling with his teeth a few times as he waited for you to adjust to his length.

“J-jimin.” You whimpered, holding onto his shoulder for support.

Jimin hummed and slowly moved, his eyes closing for a second before he locked them to your hazel eyes, drowning into the deep water. He gasped as he felt you squeeze him.

He pressed his tongue against your neck and slowly licked down to your cleavage. You felt him move, your body responding to his thrusts.

He slowly increased his pace, thrusting slowly deeper until he knew he was hitting your spot. He was going slow but deeper everytime. You were seeing stars at his pace. You wanted more.

“M-more.” You whined.

Jimin hummed again, finding your mouth to kiss you hungrily before licking your tongue with his, slowly sucking it and making you moan into his mouth. He moved his head back and smirked, the glint in his eyes unapologetic as he thrust harder this time. You let out a scream, your grip tightening on his shoulder.

“Ahh.” You whined, letting out muffled noises against his shoulder. “Please…j-jimin!”

His thrusts were faster and harder, he was panting and growling. Your eyes rolled back in pleasure, tearing trickling down the corner of your eyes. You felt the unfamiliar knot form in your stomach, feeling it tighten and snap.

Jimin felt your release. He kissed your neck, marking you and growled as he came inside you, filling you with his hot seeds.

You gasped as he pulled out completely and laid next to you. You were his utter obsession and he was sure he couldn't get rid of it now at all.

The lingering warmth of his touch still simmered beneath your skin, a heavy contrast to the sudden stillness that settled through the west wing.

As the tall mahogany doors creaked open, the air inside the room felt different—cooler, thick with the scent of aged paper, cedar, and dried lavender. You stepped over the threshold, expecting perhaps a gallery of family history or a private study.

Instead, the ground beneath your feet seemed to dissolve.

The moonlight slicing through the arched windows illuminated the space piece by piece, and with every detail that emerged, the blood in your veins slowed to an icy crawl. It wasn't horror that gripped you, but a profound, disorienting vertigo. The sheer scale of what surrounded you was staggering.

Your eyes tracked the walls. The framed programs weren't just a handful of memorable nights; they were an unbroken lineage of your entire career. Rows upon rows of ticket stubs, perfectly aligned, dated back to afternoons you had long forgotten—matinees performed to half-empty houses where you assumed no one was truly paying attention.

But he had been there.

You walked slowly toward the glass cabinets, your fingers trembling so violently you had to tuck them against your stomach. Inside lay objects that felt intensely, almost embarrassingly intimate. Your retired performance gloves, the silk still bearing the faint creases of your knuckles.

The ivory gown from Giselle, its delicate tulle preserved so perfectly it looked alive. These weren't things a casual patron could buy. These were pieces of your life that had vanished backstage, items you assumed had been discarded or lost to the theater's chaotic wardrobe department.

He had rescued them. He had treated the remnants of your exhausting, grueling labor as holy relics.

"Jimin..." The name was nothing more than a breathless exhalation, catching in the back of your throat.

He didn't defend himself. He didn't offer a charming, aristocratic excuse. He simply stood near the desk, his silhouette dark against the silver moonlight, letting you witness the full, crushing weight of his silence.

Your gaze fell to the newspaper clippings spread across the mahogany desk. When you saw the date on the central article, a sharp, familiar ache bloomed in the center of your chest. The year the world went dark. The year the plague of grief had threatened to swallow you whole, leaving you to raise your sister on nothing but sheer willpower and broken dreams.

"You disappeared for seven months," Jimin’s voice cut through the quiet, stripped of all its usual polished composure. It was raw. Fragile. "The papers called it a sabbatical. But I knew. I saw the way you had been dancing before you left—like you were trying to break yourself against the stage."

You turned around slowly, the satin of your dress whispering against the silence.

"I thought you would never return," he confessed, his dark eyes fixed on yours, completely defenseless. "And for those seven months, the world felt entirely dark. When you finally stepped back into the wings... I was in the box. I didn't care if you missed a step. I didn't care if you ever reached the principal title. I just needed to see you survive."

His voice faltered, a rare fracture in his immaculate bearing. "The first night you smiled during a variation again... I knew you were going to be alright. I kept that program in my jacket for a year."

You looked around the room one last time, the sheer magnitude of it pressing down on your chest. This wasn't the obsession of a collector. It wasn't the passing fancy of a wealthy man spending his inheritance on a beautiful dancer.

This was an entire life built quietly, reverently, in the shadows of yours. Every triumph, every heartbreak, every silent tear you had wiped away in lonely dressing rooms—he had sustained himself on it. He had anchored his soul to your movement.

"You were never supposed to see this," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I know how it must look."

But as you stared at him—this powerful, unapproachable aristocrat looking so utterly undone before you—the initial chill in your blood gave way to something overwhelming and heavy. It was a terrifying, beautiful truth that rewrite every lonely night you had ever spent doubting your worth.

You had never truly danced in the dark. Even when the theater was empty, even when you felt entirely abandoned by the world, Park Jimin had been holding his breath, keeping the light alive for you.

The silence that followed his confession was not the warm, intoxicating quiet of the music room, but something heavier—a dense, suffocating stillness that made the air feel thin.

Your gaze remained fixed on the open chest, your eyes tracking the rows of velvet boxes. Each one represented a night you had bled for your art, a night you had collapsed into bed with aching muscles and a hollow chest, entirely unaware that a man was driving back to this colossal manor to lock a piece of his soul away in your honor.

"Every opening night," you whispered, the words tasting like lead on your tongue.

"Every one," Jimin confirmed. He hadn't moved. He stood so perfectly still he might have been one of the marble statues in his foyer, yet the tension radiating from his frame was palpable.

You looked down at the breathtaking diamond pendant resting against your collarbone. It felt impossibly heavy now, less like a gift and more like a beautifully forged anchor, pulling you down into the depths of a history you hadn't consented to be a part of.

The romance of the evening was fracturing, the smooth facade of the fairytale giving way to a jagged, disorienting reality. You had thought he was a man captivated by a dancer; you were beginning to realize he had built an altar to a phantom.

"Jimin," you started, your voice trembling as you took a half-step back, your bare heels brushing against the edge of the plush rug. "This... all of this. If I had never agreed to get into your car tonight... what were you going to do with these?"

His dark eyes lifted, locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no shame. Just that devastating, quiet certainty that had fascinated you from the moment he stepped out of the Rolls-Royce.

"I would have kept buying them," he said softly.

A cold shiver rippled down your spine. "Forever?"

"Until you stopped dancing." He offered a faint, almost melancholic smile that didn't reach his eyes. "And perhaps even after that."

The honesty was what unnerved you the most. If he had been a monster, if his intentions had felt predatory or cruel, you could have fled. You could have screamed for his chauffeur to take you home. But there was a profound, agonizing tenderness in his devotion that made it impossible to hate—and that was exactly what terrified you. The boundary between love and a beautiful, gilded madness had been entirely erased.

You reached up, your fingertips fumbling slightly as you touched the cool diamonds at your throat. "It's too much," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Jimin’s smile faded, his posture stiffening imperceptibly. The shadow that had crossed his features in the west wing returned, deeper this time. He took a slow step toward you, his hand rising as if to comfort you, before he caught himself and let it drop back to his side.

"Does it frighten you?" he asked, his baritone dropping to a private, fragile register.

You looked at the chest, then at the man who had spent a decade harboring a quiet, impossible longing for a woman he didn't even know.

"I don't know," you confessed, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "It feels... as though I am stepping into a story that was written long before I arrived. I don't know where the dancer you've imagined ends, Jimin, and where I begin."

For the first time since you had met him, Jimin looked entirely at a loss. The quiet, inherited confidence that seemed to master every room he entered cracked, revealing something desperate and profoundly human beneath.

"You are the only reality I have ever cared about, Y/N," he whispered, his eyes searching yours with a raw, pleading hunger.

The rain outside suddenly seemed louder, a relentless drumming against the glass that underscored the sudden, terrifying distance opening up between you in the center of the room.

----

The rhythmic, sharp clack of pointe shoes against the linoleum floor suddenly sounded incredibly loud, slicing through the hazy remnants of your fairytale.

Mina’s words hung in the air between you, heavy and toxic, instantly tarnishing the bright morning sunlight that flooded the studio. You looked down at your hands, your knuckles white against the wooden barre. The diamond pendant hidden beneath your loose rehearsal leotard suddenly felt blistering hot against your skin, like a brand rather than a gift.

"He isn't dangerous, Mina," you said, your voice sounding defensive even to your own ears. You hated how small it wrapped around the vast emptiness of the room. "You didn't see the way he looked at me. It wasn't... it wasn't malicious. He was entirely undone."

Mina stopped stretching, turning her full body toward you, her expression laced with a fierce, protective gravity that pulled you right out of the clouds.

"Every stalker in history thinks they're a romantic, Y/N," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh, urgent whisper so the other dancers wouldn't overhear. "Undone? He’s a billionaire who has spent a decade treating your life like his personal gallery. He bought your costumes. Do you have any idea how much money and influence it takes to bribe a theater’s wardrobe department to smuggle out principal pieces? That isn't just admiration. That is a calculated, quiet insertion of himself into your existence without your consent."

A cold, creeping numbness started at the tips of your toes and traveled upward, settling right in the pit of your stomach.

Your mind flashed back to the music room—the dark, intoxicating friction of his skin against yours, the bruising intensity of his mouth on your collarbone, his low, gravelly whisper calling you. Odette. His Odette. At the time, it had felt like the height of passion, a beautiful surrender to a ten-year-old melody.

But looking at it now, under the sterile, unforgiving fluorescent lights of the practice studio, a sickening question took root, Had he been kissing you, or had he been kissing the phantom he had spent ten years curating in his mind?

"He said he was just a man in the audience," you murmured, desperately trying to anchor yourself to the vulnerability you had seen in his eyes when he opened that chest of unopened gifts. "He said he didn't want to presume familiarity."

"But he did presume it," Mina countered sharply, reaching out to grip your forearm. Her touch was grounded, a stark contrast to Jimin's reverent, ghostly caresses. "He collected your grief, Y/N. He watched you suffer through the worst year of your life from a dark box, keeping score of your smiles like they belonged to him. If he truly cared about you as a human being, he would have stepped out of the shadows when you were drowning. He didn't. Because a fantasy is easier to control."

The studio clock ticked relentlessly, marking the seconds as the ground beneath your feet continued to fracture.

The image of the west wing room flashed behind your eyes—not as a holy relic of his love, but as a beautifully gilded cage. The countless velvet boxes, the meticulous chronologies, the sheer weight of a man's entire life built silently around a woman who had no idea he was there. It was a terrifying realization. You hadn't just stepped into a romance; you had stepped into an altar where you were the prize.

"What am I supposed to do?" you whispered, the butterflies that had animated your morning turning into a flock of trapped, frantic things inside your chest.

Before Mina could answer, the studio doors swung open, and the sharp, authoritative clap of Madame Cornettee’s hands echoed through the space, calling the company to order.

You forced yourself to stand, your legs feeling strangely disconnected from your body as you took your place at the barre. As the piano music started, you moved automatically, your body executing the familiar geometry of the choreography. But for the first time in ten years, you didn't feel the comforting, invisible warmth of a dedicated gaze shielding you from the dark.

Instead, every time you turned toward the mirrors, you found yourself looking past your own reflection, wondering what else was watching from the shadows—and exactly what it expected you to be.

°

The heavy scent of scorched petals and smoke hung like a shroud in the small dressing room, completely suffocating the sweet, floral perfume of the remaining bouquets.

Jimin tossed the blackened, skeletal remains of the lilies into the waste bin. The metallic clang echoed through the room like a gunshot. He took a slow, deliberate step toward you, the light from your vanity bulbs catching the stark, sharp lines of his face. The aristocratic gentleman who had played the piano with such devastating tenderness a week ago was gone. In his place stood someone cold, unyielding, and utterly territorial.

"What was that?" your voice trembled, a thin thread of sound against the deafening quiet.

"They were unnecessary," he replied, his voice terrifyingly calm, devoid of any inflection whatsoever as he adjusted the cuffs of his tailored shirt.

"They were a gift from a patron, Jimin," you said, your fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of your costume, your knuckles white. "It is common courtesy to accept them. You had no right—"

"I have every right," he interrupted, his baritone dropping to a dangerous, gravelly low that seemed to vibrate the very air between you. He did not shout. He didn't have to. The quiet force behind his words was enough to make your breath falter.

He moved closer, his tall shadow stretching over you, completely boxing you in against the vanity. The proximity, which had felt intoxicatingly seductive in his manor, now felt predatory. Your back pressed against the edge of the wooden table, the lightbulbs casting a harsh, unforgiving glare over his dilated, dark eyes.

"Jimin, you are acting insane," you whispered, the small voice of doubt that Mina had planted blooming into a full, choking panic in your chest.

"Am I?" Jimin leaned down, his face mere inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. But there was no passion in his gaze now—only a consuming, unblinking focus that made your skin crawl. He reached out, his long, elegant fingers wrapping firmly around your chin, forcing you to look at him. His grip wasn't brutal, but it was unyielding. A reminder of the strength hidden beneath his expensive silk and wool.

"For ten years, I have protected you from the dark, Y/N," he murmured, his gaze tracing your trembling lips, then moving to the diamond pendant still resting against your skin. "I watched you bleed for your art. I bought the very clothes that touched your skin. I built an entire world to keep you safe, to keep you mine. Do you truly believe I will allow another man to leave his mark on what belongs to me?"

"I don't belong to you," you breathed, a tear of pure, suffocating realization slipping down your cheek.

Jimin’s thumb caught the tear, wiping it away with an agonizing, gentle slow motion that felt entirely threatening. A dark, chilling smile touched the corners of his lips.

"You have always belonged to me, my beautiful Odette," he whispered, his voice a seductive, terrifying purr against your ear. "You simply didn't know it until tonight."

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours one last time, ensuring you understood the boundaries of the gilded cage he had built around you.

The heavy scent of the scorched lilies still suffocated the small dressing room, but the air between you had turned bitterly cold.

Jimin stood frozen in the center of the room, his long fingers tightening around the thorns of the white roses you had violently thrust against his chest. He didn't seem to feel them piercing his skin. His immaculate, aristocratic bearing had cracked entirely, leaving behind a jagged, hollow emptiness. For ten years, he had been the architect of a flawless world where he was your silent guardian; in a single breath, you had torn the foundation out from beneath his feet.

"You cannot ask that of me," he whispered, his baritone fracturing, stripped of all its terrifying authority. The sound was thin, bleeding with a raw, desperate agony that vibrated through the quiet room.

"I am asking it, Jimin," you said, your voice shaking with a volatile mixture of fear and hot, boiling anger. You stood by the open door, your knuckles white on the brass handle, your chest heaving under your costume. "I want you out. Out of my dressing room, out of my theater, and out of my life."

He stared at you, his dark eyes wide, dilated, and drowning in a pure, devastating disbelief. He looked down at the pristine white roses in his hands, then back up at you, as if waiting for the punchline of a cruel joke. He had survived seven months of your absence by living on memories, but this—this explicit, visceral rejection from the goddess he worshipped—was a mortal wound. You weren't just banning him from a building; you were ripping away the only light he had used to navigate his own darkness.

"Y/N..." he stepped forward, a blind, instinctive reach toward you, his lips parting to plead.

"Don't," you choked out, flinching away from his advance.

The movement was worse than a physical blow. Jimin stopped dead in his tracks. The realization that he—the man who had dedicated a decade to keeping you safe—was now the source of your terror seemed to age him in an instant. The unyielding, possessive predator from moments before withered away, leaving only a man profoundly, utterly broken.

A suffocating, deafening silence settled over the corridor.

Slowly, his head bowed. The man who mastered boardrooms and held the theater's fate in his hands looked small. Trembling, he clutched the rejected bouquet closer to his chest, the white petals bruising against his tailored waistcoat. Without another word, he finally took a step backward, crossing the threshold into the dim hallway.

You didn't hesitate. With a sharp, desperate motion, you slammed the heavy wooden door shut, throwing the deadbolt into place.

The sharp click of the lock echoed like a final verdict. On the other side, through the thick mahogany, there was no sound of retreating footsteps. No engine revving in the alley. There was only a heavy, lingering silence, leaving you alone in the smoke, wondering if you had finally broken the phantom who had held your world together.

°

The rain outside the west wing had slowed to a miserable, rhythmic weeping, mimicking the hollow silence that now filled the room.

Jimin sat on the cold parquet floor, slumped against the base of the glass cabinet that held your debut dress. The pristine white roses lay scattered around him, their stems broken, a few petals stained with the dark, sluggish drops of blood from where the thorns had pierced his palms. He didn’t notice the pain. The ache blooming in his chest was a vast, suffocating gravity, collapsing his entire world inward.

In his trembling hands, he held your retired performance gloves.

Slowly, reverently, he lifted the delicate silk to his face, burying his nose into the fabric. He inhaled deeply, his chest shuddering as he sought the faint, lingering phantom of you. It was all there—the scent of the stage powder, the crisp hum of the theater air, and that distinct, flowery perfume that had haunted his senses for a decade. He drank it in like a dying man in a desert, his eyes closing tight as a single, rare tear slipped down his cheek, dampening the silk.

"Y/N," he rasped into the fabric, his voice a broken, fragile string of sound.

He looked up, his dilated eyes sweeping across the dark, silver-lit room. The framed programs, the meticulously aligned ticket stubs, the towering portrait of you as Odette—everything he had built, everything he was, existed solely because of you. He hadn't just built a collection; he had constructed a sanctuary to keep himself anchored to the living world.

“You are my life,” he had told you, and it wasn't a hyperbole. It was a terrifying, absolute truth.

For ten years, his existence had been calibrated to the rhythm of your breath before a leap. He had learned to breathe when you smiled; he had learned to survive the winter of your grief by counting the days until your return. To be cut off from you, to be banned from the dark corner of the box where he spent a decade guarding your light, was a sentence worse than death. It was complete erasure.

A ragged, desperate breath escaped him. He couldn't do it. He couldn't simply stop existing. The thought of an opening night arriving without him there to protect you, without his eyes tracing the line of your spine, made his lungs seize with a pure, agonizing panic.

He didn't need to touch you. He didn't even need you to look at him again. The memory of your skin beneath his mouth, the soft, desperate whines you had made on his floor—they were a beautiful, fleeting luxury he had never dared to dream of possessing permanently. But he needed to watch.

Even if he had to hide further in the shadows. Even if he had to buy the entire upper tier just to sit in the furthest, darkest corner where the light couldn't catch the reflection of his eyes.

Clutching the silk gloves tightly against his heart, Jimin leaned his head back against the glass, staring up at your portrait in the moonlight. The polite, aristocratic mask was gone, replaced by a raw, eternal yearning. He would obey her rules. He would stay away from her door. But he would never stop watching his Odette. He couldn't.

°

The auditorium of the Grand Theatre was completely dark, a vast chasm of hushed breathing and anticipation. Way in the back, past the luxury boxes, in the deepest shadows of the highest tier where the velvet curtains met the cold stone wall, a figure stood.

Jimin did not sit. He stood perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, his tailored coat blending seamlessly into the dark. He had bought every seat in the last three rows under an assumed name, ensuring that no one would stumble into his sanctuary. He was a ghost in his own theater, keeping his promise to stay out of your sight—but he could not stay out of your world.

Then, the stage lights flared to life, a brilliant, blinding wash of gold and ivory.

And there you were.

Jimin’s breath caught, his chest tightening with an ache so profound it made his knees weak. This was the *Cornettee* variation. Your dream dance. The piece you had talked about with quiet, burning passion during the brief hours you had shared in his manor.

The orchestra swelled, the first notes rising like a tidal wave, and you moved.

A quiet, reverent exhale escaped his lips. You were magnificent. Any doubt, any exhaustion from the harrowing week behind you had vanished the moment your pointe shoes struck the floor. You floated across the stage with a fluid, impossible geometry, every extension a masterpiece of discipline and raw emotion.

Standing in the shadows, a fierce, overwhelming sense of pride bloomed in Jimin’s chest.

The aristocratic composure he usually wore like armor dissolved, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated awe of a man watching his universe expand. He didn't look at you with the possessive fury of that night in the dressing room; he looked at you with a pure, humbling admiration.

Your form was flawless. The delicate arch of your back, the effortless grace with which you suspended yourself in the air during a grand jeté, the absolute elegance of your landing—it was poetry in human form. You were no longer just a woman; you were the very definition of art.

He watched the way the stage lights caught the sweat glistening on your collarbone, the fierce determination burning in your eyes as you neared the climax of the piece. You were dancing for yourself tonight, completely untethered, entirely free.

And as the final notes resonated through the rafters and the auditorium erupted into a deafening, standing ovation, Jimin didn't applaud. He simply closed his eyes, a soft, melancholic smile touching his lips. He let the thunderous praise of thousands wash over him, content in the absolute darkness of his corner.

You had won. You had conquered your dream. And even if he could only ever love you from the deepest shadows of the room, he was there, holding his breath, utterly consumed by your grace.

The final, echoing chords of the orchestra were suddenly cut short by a violent, tearing screech from the rafters above.

Jimin was already turning to slip out of the exit when the grand chandelier flickered once, twice, and died, plunging the upper tier into a terrifying shadow. A heartbeat later, the first scream tore through the auditorium, sharp and piercing enough to curdle the blood. *Fire.*

Panic erupted like a physical shockwave. The audience surged toward the doors in a blind, deafening frenzy, but Jimin stood entirely frozen, his eyes locked onto the stage. Smoke—thick, chemical, and pitch-black—was already billowing from the heavy velvet wings backstage, illuminated by the sudden, angry orange glow of a roaring inferno.

Y/N.

Without a single thought for his own safety, abandoning his promise, Jimin lunged against the terrifying current of the screaming crowd. He sprinted down the stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal. In his right hand, he still gripped the bouquet of white roses he had brought to the theater—a habit he couldn't break, even if he had only intended to leave them in the alleyway.

He burst through the backstage doors. The air here was a suffocating wall of pure heat and gray ash. Dancers and stagehands fled past him, sobbing, their faces smeared with soot. He ignored them all, shouting your name into the blinding, toxic fog, his voice tearing raw.

He reached the corridor of the dressing rooms. The ceiling above was already a lattice of roaring flame, dropping chunks of burning plaster. And there, at the very end of the hall, he saw you.

The heavy wooden door to your dressing room had warped from the intense heat, jamming you inside. You were coughing violently, trapped behind a screen of rising fire, your small hands desperately clawing at the frame.

"Y/N!"

Jimin slammed his weight against the burning wood. The heat was blistering, searing straight through his tailored wool coat. He didn't care. He kicked the door with a desperate, savage force until the frame splintered and gave way. As he lunged into the roaring heat of the room to pull you out, the edge of the collapsing ceiling rained embers down upon him.

The white roses in his hand caught instantly, the pristine petals curling into black ash, the fire licking directly across his palms. The skin of his hands blistered, a sharp, white-hot agony tearing up his arms, but his grip on you never faltered. He dropped the burning stems, wrapped his long arms entirely around your trembling, fragile frame, and shielded your head against his chest as he carried you through the gauntlet of falling debris.

By the time he burst through the final exit into the cool, rain-slicked alleyway, your head was lolling against his shoulder, your body half-unconscious from the smoke.

Jimin collapsed against the side of his waiting Rolls-Royce, his chest heaving as he carefully laid you onto the leather backseat. Looking down at your pale face, at the soot smudging your cheeks and your closed eyes, a cold, paralyzing terror seized his soul. He felt his entire life dying right there in his chest.

The universe was going silent. You couldn't leave him. You were his air, his sanity, his very reason for drawing breath. If you died here, he would simply walk back into the flames.

With trembling, blistered hands, Jimin lifted a crystal flask, pouring cool water into a glass. His fingers were shaking so violently that a few drops spilled onto the leather upholstery, but his focus never wavered from your face. He carefully hovered over you, supporting the back of your neck with the uninjured crook of his arm as he pressed the glass to your parched lips.

"Drink," he pleaded, his voice a low, ragged rasp that sounded entirely unraveled. "Please, Y/N. Just breathe."

The cool water hit your throat, washing away the bitter, scratching taste of the smoke. You coughed weakly, your chest heaving as the fresh oxygen finally revived your senses. The blurred, chaotic world of the alleyway began to steady, and the very first thing that came into focus was the stark, terrified silhouette of Jimin looming over you.

You stared up at him, your voice nothing more than a tiny, breathless thread. "You came..."

A soft, bruised smile touched your lips, defying the absolute ruin surrounding the theater. Because the devastating truth was, tonight during your dream performance of the Cornettee, the thunderous standing ovation had felt hollow. Walking backstage to an empty vanity, without his pristine white roses waiting to anchor you, without the heavy, protective weight of his shadow lurking in the back of the auditorium—you had felt stupidly, agonizingly incomplete.

You had realized, in the quietest depths of your soul, that your art had become inextricably bound to his gaze.

But seeing him here, you knew. He had watched you tonight, too. He had never left.

Your eyes drifted downward, falling onto his hands resting on the leather seat.

The skin of his palms was severely burned, blistered and raw from where he had shattered the burning door. Right beside his hip lay the blackened, charred remnants of the roses he had carried straight through the inferno just to reach you.

A profound, quiet certainty settled deep into your chest, chilling and beautiful all at once. Mina was right. This was madness. It was a terrifying, consuming, unyielding obsession that defied every rule of a sane world. But looking at the man who had willingly walked into hell just to ensure you kept breathing, you realized you didn't care about a sane world anymore.

Whatever this dark, intoxicating thing was between you two—his obsession, his insanity, it wasn't just his anymore.

It was yours.

"You've become spoiled." "By who?" She turns slightly in his arms and looks up at him. The answer is obvious, Yoongi stares back for a moment before finally finding the phone and silencing it.

The room falls quiet once more, neither of them says anything. Then, very carefully, he places her phone back on the nightstand, wraps both arms around her again, and pulls her against him with unmistakable determination.

"Yoongi." “No” Yoongi mutters as he shuts his eyes, going back to the very cozy and comfortable position they were in. It’s like this most morning, neither of them is a morning person but are responsible adults that wake up at 7 am. “Honey we have to start getting ready” ___ mumbles against his chest but Yoongi just snuggles closer. 

“We have a trip to leave for, and with my dad involved you don’t want to be late” ___ talks as she lifts her head to take a good look at him, “I don’t even know how we agreed to this” Yoongi’s voice is thick, still a bit hazy from a good night’s sleep. 

“I know how, our mother’s divided and conquered, making each of us agree to it individually so that our combined brain couldn’t say no to this” ___ speaks as Yoongi loosens his grip around her. "Our combined brain isn't a thing," Yoongi says. 

"It absolutely is a thing.""It's not."

"You have the common sense and I have the social skills." ___ comments like it’s the most sane thing in the world and Yoongi chuckles, his face dropping back into her shoulder. "Should we just say that some work came up for me?" he mumbles, his voice muffled against her skin as he presses a series of absent-minded kisses along her shoulder blade. "Something unavoidable. A last-minute meeting. A studio emergency. A national crisis."

"A national crisis?" "I don't know. I'll figure something out."

"And abandon me with the parents, your brother and sister-in-law and their new baby and Sunhee all alone in a cabin?" ___ asks as she pushes him back enough to properly look at him, immediate outrage colouring her expression. "You'd abandon your gorgeous, beautiful, kind, smart and hot girlfriend like that?"

Yoongi studies her seriously for a moment. "You forgot humble." ___ chuckles as she pulls back completely this time, standing up as she dramatically ties a robe around her. "Hey," Yoongi protests immediately, pushing himself up onto one elbow. "You can't just leave me in the bed like this."

"Watch me." "We have an unspoken mutual understanding about extra five minutes of cuddling every morning." ___ picks up her toothbrush without a shred of sympathy. "That sounds like something you made up." 

“It absolutely isn’t yesterday morning you made me late for a meeting  because you wanted to cuddle” Yoongi says once he takes a long sip of his water. “You were late because you got distracted by me in a pencil skirt and we just had to have sex” ___ talks to him through the mirror as she watches Yoongi walk towards her, his hands snaking around her.

Years of dating have done nothing to reduce the frequency with which he finds reasons to touch her. ___ catches his reflection in the mirror as he rests his chin on her head. His hair is still messy from sleep, his eyes half closed, his expression carrying the distinct look of someone who has not yet accepted that the day has officially begun.

"You're supposed to be getting ready." ___ comments with a mouth full of toothpaste, “I am getting ready, I need the morning cuddling to recharge myself for the day” Yoongi whines and ___ can’t help but smile. She had feared this once, early on. That the freshness of it would fade for him. That someone who lived as large and publicly and exhaustingly as he did would eventually find ordinary mornings with her ordinary. But he just seems to have settled deeper into it somehow, like he's been growing roots she can't fully see.

"Baby, come on." She spits, rinses, turns in the circle of his arms to face him properly. His eyes open slightly more, tracking her. "I want us to be on time." ___ asks as her hands reach up to fix his hair, almost as long as her bob from years ago.

“We can save time and shower together” Yoongi suggests with a smirk which earns him a soft smack on his chest, “None of this around our parents, last time you kissed me good bye and my parents tried to give me the sex talk at the ripe age of 32” He presses his lips together. His eyes are doing the thing where he's trying very hard not to find something funny and failing at a foundational level. 

"How about this," she says, her hands settling against his chest, "I get in the shower while you make us amazing coffee, and then you get ready because you're quick, and we leave on time." She punctuates it with a soft kiss, which is her first mistake, because his arms tighten around her immediately, pulling her closer with the certainty.

Their lips stay touching, barely, the kiss not quite ending. "I'm not always quick," he murmurs against her mouth. Her fingers find their way into his hair, combing through it slowly, and he makes the quiet sound he makes when something feels good, low and unhurried, his forehead tilting down toward hers.

The bathroom is warm, the coffee isn't made, they are going to be late. She lets herself melt for exactly one more moment, her fingers curling at the nape of his neck, his arms solid around her, the morning quiet and warm and entirely unconcerned with their schedule.

Then she pulls back, firmly with genuine resolve. "Coffee," she says. "Now. Go." He exhales slowly through his nose, the long suffering exhale of a man being asked to do something deeply unreasonable. His arms drop as he steps back.

"Fine," he says. "I love you" He turns toward the door with great reluctance, pausing at the frame to look back at her over his shoulder, hair still a disaster, eyes still half asleep, wearing the expression of someone filing a formal complaint with the universe.

She points at the kitchen. He goes, he can’t believe how whipped he is, how he’s planned this entire trip just to propose. 

“Sunhee, you got the dress? You have to make sure that she wears that only” Yoongi whispers in the car as ___ steps out to get them some more water, or rather forced to get water. "I have the dress," Sunhee confirms from the back seat, with the calm of someone who has been briefed extensively and takes her responsibilities seriously. "I have the dress, the earrings, the shoes. I also have backups of the earrings because I know her."

"Good." Yoongi nods rapidly. "Good, good, good-" "Yoongi-ya." His mother's voice booms suddenly from the car speaker, loud enough that both he and Sunhee flinch. She is apparently coordinating from the other vehicle. "We've confirmed with the decorator. The florals will be set up by four. Everyone on the guest list has confirmed."

“And you stuck to the guest list? I don’t want any random relatives there” “We stuck to the guest list, only 20 people other than us have been invited” Mrs Lee speaks and Yoongi can hear how she’s been crying, hopefully out of joy.

"Aunty," he says carefully. "Are you okay?" A brief pause, a soft sound that she tries to disguise as clearing her throat. "I'm perfectly fine," she says, with great composure. "I'm just very happy."

"I'm not crying," Mrs. Lee says firmly, to someone in the car with her. "You cried at breakfast," Mr. Lee says and there’s some laughter on their end. Yoongi roped in everyone in their family to help with the proposal, he wanted it to be just right for ___. Was it the wisest decision, definitely not, the mother showed up crying happy tears today, but they’re all also very excited. 

“Guys I just need you to keep this going till tomorrow evening, ___ can’t know-” “Dad, do you guys need more water?” ___ interrupts Yoongi as she knocks on the other car, all he hears is his mother yelp before he hastily disconnects the call. 

“Why are you guys so, mom are you okay?” ___ asks her mother out of genuine concern who’s currently trying to even out her breath. “I am fine, it’s just the altitude” Mrs Lee dismisses her daughter, “We’re still in Seoul” 

She gets in, pulls the door shut, and sits for a second. "Baby." She turns to Yoongi. "I don't think my dad should be driving. They're all acting so weird, should I go over there and drive them?"

"What-" Yoongi starts. "Your mother was also acting strange this morning, are they all sick? Did something happen that nobody is telling me?" Her brow furrows with genuine concern now, the kind that means she's started running through possibilities. "Is everyone okay? Is this an intervention? Am I being intervened?"

"Nobody is being intervened," Yoongi says. "You've been weird all morning too." ___ adds turning to Sunhee in the backseat. "I'm a surgeon, ___. I'm always a little weird." "That's fair," ___ concedes, which buys approximately four seconds before she turns back to Yoongi. "Yoongi."

"Mm." "Look at me." He looks at her. Fully, directly, with the particular stillness he reserves for moments that require absolute composure. She searches his face the way she always does, that quiet careful reading she's gotten very good at over the years.

He holds very still and thinks about nothing. He thinks about the weather. He thinks about the coffee he made this morning. He thinks about absolutely anything except the ring sitting in his jacket pocket approximately thirty centimeters from her hand.

"You're sure everyone is fine," she says. "Everyone is fine," he says. She looks at him for one more long moment. "Everyone is just excited for the trip," Sunhee offers from the back, which is both true and the most dangerous thing she could have said.

___ goes very still. "Excited how," she says slowly. "It's just a weekend trip, why would anyone be-" "I meant relaxed," Sunhee says immediately. "Everyone is just relaxed. Looking forward to a relaxing weekend. Very normal amount of relaxation."

"Right," ___ says. Yoongi pulls out of the car park before she can follow that thread any further. In the back seat Sunhee opens her phone and stares at it with the focused intensity of someone who almost just blew the entire operation and knows it.

He drives, he breathes, he does not touch his jacket pocket. One more day, he thinks. Just one more day.

“If their engagement party is this small, I can’t even imagine what size the wedding is going to be” the proposal and wedding discussions are in full swing, that’s all they can talk about.  

“It’s a proposal today, a wedding in six months and grandchildren in a year” Mr Lee adds with a big smile, ___ is his pride and joy, and the only child, he can’t wait for this next chapter of her life. “Yoongi says that they’ve discussed it all, when they’re going to have kids, how many,” Mr Min adds and the mothers exchange a look.

It is the kind of look that contains an entire conversation. The kind that has been building since an afternoon over barley tea and good plates and twenty photographs, since a sweater recognized across a kitchen, since two women who missed their calling as matchmakers watched something they quietly arranged become something neither of them could have fully imagined. 

The car goes quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind, the kind that has too much warmth in it to need filling. "Six months for the wedding might be ambitious," Mrs. Min says eventually. "I was thinking spring," Mrs. Lee says immediately.

"Spring is perfect." "The venue near Hannam-" "I was thinking the same venue" "It's beautiful in April" "We should call them Monday"

"She hasn't said yes yet," Mr. Lee points out, mildly, from the driver's seat. Both mothers turn to look at him. "She's going to say yes," they say, in unison, with the absolute certainty of two women who have never once doubted this outcome.

Mr. Lee faces the road again. "Just noting the order of events," he says peacefully, and says nothing further.

The cottage is just as ___ remembered, the November chill just right for the place, there’s already an outdoor bonfire going. She looks at the hills going soft in the fading light. At Sunhee, who has gotten very busy with her bag, and Wonik, who is studying the treeline with suspicious intensity, and both sets of parents who’ve gotten very busy with getting dinner together.

Something moves through her chest, quiet and enormous and not entirely nameable. "This is really beautiful," she says softly. His hand presses gently at her back. "Come on," he says. "You're cold."

She is, she hadn't noticed until he said it. She lets him walk her toward the warmth of the bonfire, his hand steady at her back, the voices of their family carrying across the cold air behind them, and she thinks distantly that she has been trying to prepare herself for this feeling for months now.

The food and drinks are flowing in no time, the kind of dinner that stops being about eating and becomes about something else entirely, the warmth of it, the noise, the particular happiness of people who love each other and don't get enough evenings like this.

Everyone is beyond full and nobody stops eating. The drinks are refilled before glasses are empty. Wonik is in the middle of a story that keeps getting interrupted by his own laughter. Both mothers have migrated to the same end of the table and are deep in a conversation that Yoongi is choosing not to investigate. Mr. Lee is attempting to explain something to Mr. Min using a napkin as a diagram.

"She is so precious," he says softly, his hand moving in a slow careful arc across her back, the size of it covering most of her. "I can't believe she's six months already." He shakes his head slightly, careful not to disturb her. "She was so tiny when Sejin-hyung first sent the pictures."

"She still is tiny," ___ says from beside him, watching Hana's face in the firelight. "She's grown," he insists, quietly, with the authority of someone who has been tracking this very seriously. "She's a baby, Yoongi."

"A bigger baby." He adjusts his arm slightly, cradling her closer on instinct, and Hana sighs, a small sound, entirely content. Something in his expression does something ___ doesn't have a word for yet, soft and unguarded and slightly undone, the look of a person being trusted completely by something very small and finding it more than they were prepared for.

___ watches him for a moment. The firelight on his face. The careful way he holds her. The fact that he has barely moved from this spot for forty minutes and doesn't appear to have any intention of changing that.

"You're good with her," she says softly. He glances at her sideways. "She's easy." "She's not easy, she screamed for twenty minutes in the car."

"She was tired." He looks back down at Hana, adjusting the blanket over her with two fingers, gently, so gently. "She just needed to be held."

"Yoongi," she says quietly. "Mm." “Should we have one too? Get started today?” ___ speaks lightheartedly, and Yoongi freezes not expecting this. “I thought it wasn’t a conversation for another two years?”

"I'm just saying." She gestures at Hana, at his enormous careful hands, at the general situation. "Look at you, you’re ready to be a dad” she reaches over to take a long sip of her drink, while Yoongi looks down, the small baby in his arms, if he could freeze time, he would because he’s not ready for Hana to grow even a centimeter. 

“I’ve always been nurturing,” “Yes and you know how to fix everything in our house, and you make cheesy dad jokes, you take such good care of me” ___ speaks softly, resting her head against his arm. “I don’t make dad jokes, I am funny and we’re not ready to be parents, we’re still very stupid people sometimes” Yoongi notes as he looks across the table, watching as now the mothers have also been introduced to the tissue diagram. 

“Very stupid people who buy expensive vases, where does all my art go when we have children?” ___ asks with genuine curiosity. “I mean I’ll love my children, but my collection will be older than they are” she continues and Yoongi laughs, they always go into these hypothetically, thinking and over thinking about them.

“We’ll probably need a bigger place, you’ll have to continue going on tour, mister, make us more money” ___ jokes not so lightly, there is an impending tour that starts next year, she’s not ready yet, emotionally at least. 

“For the tour, I had this idea, why don’t you come with, travel with me, collect pieces from the places we visit,” Yoongi suggests, well he’s been thinking about it long and hard, going away for so long after being engaged is going to be difficult. 

“It’s a lot to ask, but you could come at least for Europe and South America, you've been wanting to do more studio visits abroad. It doesn't have to be the tour following me around." He glances at her. "It could just be you, doing your work, in the same cities I happen to be in."

The fire crackles beside them. Hana sighs in her sleep. "Yoongi," she says softly. "It's a lot to ask," he says immediately, before she can be gentle about it. "I know it's a lot to ask. You'd be working around my schedule and I know how much you hate working around anyone's schedule-"

“Yoongi” ___ stops him, a firm hand on his thigh, “I’ll come, of course I’ll come” she adds softly. He knows that if their positions were reversed, if she were the one leaving for six months to chase a dream she'd spent her entire life building, he wouldn't even let her finish asking before agreeing.

That is simply how this works now. Somewhere along the way, compromise stopped feeling like sacrifice and started feeling like love. "Really?" The question is so genuine that it makes her chest ache a little. "Really," she says, smiling. She knows how much Yoongi loves music.

She knows what happens to him when he performs, the way entire arenas disappear and somehow become intimate, the way he comes alive under stage lights despite spending years insisting he prefers quiet rooms and small circles of people. She knows what creating means to him, what performing means to him, what the fans mean to him.

The lake beyond the cabin reflects fragments of firelight and moonlight together. And despite the ring hidden away and the proposal waiting patiently for tomorrow evening, despite the months of planning and secrets and coordination that brought everyone here, Yoongi finds himself thinking that this might be his favourite part.

Sitting beside her while she casually rearranges her future to make room for him as though it isn't even a difficult decision. As though there was never any question about choosing each other.

The day started as usual, slow breakfast, watching a movie while endlessly bickering about the plot, driving into the city for a big family lunch and now this. Impromptu family portraits that Wonik offered to take. Everyone had changed into nicer clothes after lunch, partly because photographs had been mentioned and partly because both mothers possessed an almost supernatural ability to make adults obey dress codes without ever directly issuing instructions. 

 ___ in a soft silk dress that goes up to her ankles, the heels Yoongi insisted on, the solid solitaire studs he gifted her for their first anniversary, smelling faintly like Yoongi because they couldn’t help but kiss when he first saw her. 

__ wore a soft silk dress that brushed her ankles whenever she moved, elegant without being overly formal. The heels had been entirely Yoongi's idea.  She was also wearing the small solitaire studs he'd gifted her on their first anniversary.

The first truly serious gift, the kind that had left her speechless for nearly an entire minute. They caught the afternoon sunlight now whenever she turned her head. “Hey handsome” ___ mutters to Yoongi as the Min parents pose away. 

Yoongi was conflicted about a three piece suit with a tie, but he only plans on getting engaged once, the pearlish stripes on his suit completely match her dress, his arm around her waist, glancing sideways every other second, making himself believe that she is real, very real.

All the family adds to the pictures one by one, standing together for a group picture, a family picture. Hana is smiling brightly, freshly awake from her nap, everyone smiling so widely, happily.. Truly happy, the specific kind that doesn't need anything added to it.

Yoongi feels her lean into his side slightly, her hand finding the one he has at her waist, fingers threading through his. “Let’s take a few for the couple in the garden” Wonik suggests pointing to the other side of the veranda. 

Yoongi laces his fingers through hers without much asking, already moving, already pulling her gently away from the group before she's fully processed the suggestion. She follows, because she always follows when he takes her hand like that, certain and unhurried, like he knows exactly where they're going. "Where are we-" "Just here," he says.

She's confused, mildly, in the pleasant way of someone being led somewhere by someone they trust completely. The noise of the group fades behind them as they round the side of the veranda, the November air cooler here, quieter, the last of the evening light sitting low and golden over the hills.

And then she sees it, not bouquets, not cut flowers arranged in vases the way she might have expected, the way anyone might have expected. Potted plants. Dozens of them, arranged with the careful consideration of someone who listened, really listened, over years of conversation. Trailing vines and small flowering things and the particular kind of greenery that belongs in a home rather than a ceremony, that looks like it has a future rather than just an occasion.

She stops walking, her hand goes still in his. "Yoongi," she says softly. Not a question, just his name, the way she says it when something has caught her somewhere too deep for a complete sentence.

"You always say cut flowers make you sad," he says, from beside her, his voice quiet and even, the voice he uses when he's saying something he's thought about for a long time. "That they're already dying when you get them."

___ did say that. Once, early on, offhandedly, the way you say things you don't expect anyone to file away. She turns to look at him. He's already looking at her. Not sideways, not adjacent, not the careful almost-eye-contact she spent the early months learning to read. Directly, fully, the way he looks at her now when he has decided there is nothing left to be careful about.

His free hand moves to his jacket pocket and her breath catches. "I've been trying to figure out how to do this for months," he says, and his voice is steady but she can hear the underneath of it, the particular quality of a man who is not nervous about the answer but is nonetheless undone by the size of the moment. "I had a whole speech. I wrote it down." A small breath. "I lost it somewhere around the third draft."

She lets out a sound that is almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. He looks down briefly, then back up at her, and there it is, the ring, catching the last of the evening light in his hand, and she was right, she knew she was right, it is not too flashy, it is exactly her, it is so exactly her that her eyes fill immediately and she does nothing to stop them.

“I love you, more than I ever imagined, more than I’d ever allow myself to believe, you bring so much joy to me, my life, my family” Yoongi stops for a brief moment, trying to even his breath after he looks across to see his parents who’re already crying. 

"You're funny," he says, and his voice has found its footing again, warm and certain. "Kind. Smart. So charming." His thumb moves slowly over her knuckles. "You can talk your way into any room and flirt your way out of almost anything and somehow make both look completely effortless."

She laughs, wet and unguarded. "You bring skills I've always lacked," he continues, quieter now. "The kind I didn't even know I was missing until you just, had them. All of them. Naturally." A small breath. "And you have me so whipped."

"Honey-" "I'm not even ashamed of it," he says, with complete sincerity. "I'm just. Alarmed, sometimes, by the depths of it." His brow furrows slightly, like he's still genuinely processing this information about himself. "It's an unreasonable amount to feel about one person."

She presses her lips together hard, the tears coming faster now. "If you asked me," he says, softly, "I would make time stop. I would go back to the exact moment we met in that elevator." 

He pauses, and something in his expression shifts, opens, becomes the most unguarded she has ever seen him in all the years of learning his face. "I would do every single part of it again. All of it. The tour, the distance, the fights, the falling in love." His voice drops. "All of it, if it ends here. With you." 

Yoongi reaches over, wiping a few tears, gently cradling her head, "You forgot hot," she says, mid tears, her voice completely steady, like she's been waiting to say it.

He breaks, the laugh that comes out of him is the biggest she has ever heard from him, sudden and completely helpless, his forehead dropping forward against hers, his shoulders shaking, and she's laughing too now, properly, through the tears, the two of them undone in the middle of what was supposed to be a serious moment and somehow is more perfect for it.

He lifts his head. His eyes are wet at the corners, she notices, and she doesn't say anything about it because she loves him and also because she knows he'll deny it. Yoongi doesn’t waste any time getting on his knee, looking at her for a second too long like he’s trying to imprint this memory into his brain. 

"___," he says finally, just her name, in that particular way, the way that has meant something specific since an elevator and twenty photographs and a jacket that was never really about a jacket. "Will you marry me?"

The garden goes completely quiet. The man who has been, from the very first sideways glance in a basement parking lot, so much more than she was prepared for. 

Her yes comes out on a breath, soft and immediate and completely certain. "Yes." She shakes her head slightly, laughing again, the tears coming fresh. "Yes, of course yes, was there ever any doubt-"

He's already standing, already reaching for her, the ring on her finger before she's finished the sentence, and then his arms are around her and his warm lips on hers before he can even remember to breathe.

She kisses him back with everything she has. Her hands find his face, his jaw, her fingers curling against him like she needs something to hold onto, and he obliges, his arms tightening around her waist, pulling her closer in the way he does when he's finished being sensible about things.

Yoongi pulls back just enough to breathe and then doesn't go far, his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed, both of them just breathing for a moment in the quiet of the garden. ___ kisses him again, softer this time, her thumb brushing along his jaw, and he sighs into it, his hands spreading warm at her back, unhurried now, like they have all the time in the world.

They eventually turn around, ___ still in Yoongi’s arms as she waves her hand, excitedly showing off her ring as they walk closer. More people are around now, friends, the members, aunts and uncles, the excited mothers who can’t stop crying, everyone they love is here. 

"Fiancé," ___ practices, quietly, to the room, to herself, turning the word over like she's checking the weight of it.

Yoongi cheeses so hard it's almost alarming. The full smile, unstoppable, the kind he usually reserves for moments when nobody is watching. He pulls her closer into his lap without any pretense, his arms coming around her from behind.

"Fiancé," he repeats, and the way he says it makes her melt back against his chest immediately, all her bones making a collective decision to stop working.

"It sounds different out loud," she says softly. "Good different?" "Very good different." She turns the ring slowly on her finger. "How do you feel?" he asks quietly. Not insecurely, just wanting to know, the way he asks things he actually wants answered.

She looks down at the ring. At his arms around her. At the room that smells like the cottage and the bonfire and faintly like his jacket.

"I'm so happy," she says, simply, because it's true and he deserves the uncomplicated version of it. "I'm so, unreasonably, embarrassingly happy." He makes the quiet sound against her hair that means he is too. The one that isn't quite a word but doesn't need to be.

"Fiancé," she says again, softer this time. His arms tighten once. "Keep going," he murmurs, "I like it."

She smiles at the ceiling. "Fiancé." "Mm." "My fiancé." He buries his face in her hair and says nothing, which is the loudest answer in the room.

They return to the party after a few too many minutes. The mothers have stabilized, relatively. Hana is being passed around like the smallest, most beloved parcel.

"You know," Wonik says, settling into the chair beside the fire with the tone of someone about to say something that will not leave the group alone, "technically speaking, you're already married."

___ looks at him. "We're engaged, Wonik, we just did the thing-" "You own property together," he says, counting on his fingers. "You have a pet."

"Tangie is Yoongi's-" "Tannie prefers you and you buy his food," Sunhee says pleasantly. "That's joint custody at minimum" she continues and ___ smiles flatly at her friend making a very good point. 

"You have a joint investment portfolio," Namjoon adds with a big wide grin. "He made me do that-" ___ exclaims slightly, hitting her fiance on the chest. 

"You argued for forty minutes about a vacuum," Jimin adds from across, with the delight of someone who has been waiting to contribute. "A specific vacuum. With strong feelings."

"The suction capacity was relevant-" "You have a shared calendar," Namjoon cuts off Yoongi, the smug smile still there. The fire crackles, someone snickers. Yoongi, beside her, says absolutely nothing, which means he agrees completely and has the self preservation not to say so. 

The friends continue with the teasing, what’s even more fun for ___ is hearing every small detail that went into planning this engagement. They just sit and talk over shared drinks, days like these are for that.

“Now I know Yoongi was very strict about no gifts, but I had to get something,” Mrs Lee says as she hands the newly engaged couple a red velvet box.  ___ takes it, glancing at Yoongi once before opening it.

Inside, nestled against the velvet, are two rings. Simple, warm, exactly right. She lifts one carefully and turns it toward the firelight, and there it is, engraved on the inside band in small careful letters, today's date.

"Just an early wedding gift," Mrs. Lee says softly, and ___ laughs, barely choking back the tears, her thumb running over the engraving like she needs to confirm it's real.

"In the olden times," Mrs. Lee begins, her voice steady and warm, "the engagement was closely followed by a wedding. There weren't engagement rings, not the way there are now." She pauses briefly, her hands engulfing ___’s hand with an engagement ring. "So my great grandmother gave my grandmother engraved wedding bands as a gift of approval."

"Now," Mrs. Lee continues, softer now, looking between ___ and Yoongi with the expression of a woman delivering something she has been carrying carefully for a long time, "you both might take your sweet time planning your wedding. There will be some discussion in finding the right date." The faintest smile. "Knowing our families, there will be considerable discussion." Mrs. Min makes a sound that is not quite a denial.

"But I wanted to give you this as an early gift," Mrs. Lee says, "so you remember today." She pauses, and when she continues her voice carries something quieter underneath it, something that has clearly been thought about long before tonight. "People often forget that there's a marriage waiting for them after the wedding."

"The wedding is one day," she says simply. "Marriage is everything after it. And I wanted you to have something that reminds you of that. That the two of you chose each other before the venue and the flowers and the dress." Her eyes find ___'s. "That it started here. Like this." 

It’s all too overwhelming, and before ___ can overthink this a bit more, Yoongi is softly pulling her in a corner.

“Are these signs, should we just get married today?” ___ spits it out, whispering it like saying it out loud would break the illusion or something. “We’re spiraling, but it makes total sense doesn’t it?” Yoongi adds with agreement that doesn’t help ___ at all.

“We can’t, we don’t have an officiant or anything. Also because it would be an insane thing to do” Yoongi mutters as he wipes some sweat, feeling hot on a November night. “We can’t, it would be totally insane but also make complete sense, Namjoon could officiate, he just did officiate another wedding weeks ago” he continues and ___ rapidly shakes her head.

“Babe it would be totally insane” ___ repeats not so convinced. She looks at him. Properly, fully, the way she looked at him in the elevator the first time the pieces assembled themselves, the way she looked at him outside her building when she suggested an experiment, the way she has been looking at him ever since, like he is the most specific and unrepeatable thing she has ever encountered.

He looks back at her with the exact same expression. She is trying to find the rational argument. It is somewhere in there. She can almost locate it. "Everyone we love is here," she says softly, thinking out loud now, the whisper dropping even lower. "Right now. All of them."

"All of them," he confirms quietly. "That never happens."

"It really doesn't." "And we have the rings." She looks down at the velvet box still in her hand. "Two sets of rings. We have an ordained Namjoon-"

"Who is right there," Yoongi points out, unnecessarily, because Namjoon is indeed right there, approximately four meters away, laughing at something Jimin said, entirely unaware that his evening is about to change significantly.

___ looks at Yoongi for a few seconds longer. Not thinking anymore, not really. Just looking at him, reading the face she has spent years learning, checking for the thing she needs to find.

It's there, it's been there the whole time. "Are you sure?" she asks, very quietly. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't look away, doesn't do any of the careful deliberating she fell in love with watching him do. "I've been sure for a long time," he says. "The date was always going to be whenever you were ready."

She exhales, something in her chest settles with a finality that feels less like a decision and more like an arrival. “Okay, then turn around, you can’t see me on our wedding day” ___ speaks as she pushes Yoongi away, who can only laugh at all this.

"Darling, I proposed to you approximately two hours ago," Yoongi fights back, stumbling slightly from the push, which had genuine force behind it. The pilates she started as a joke is apparently not a joke anymore.

"Turn around," she repeats. He turns around, still laughing. "I cannot believe," he tells the cottage wall, "that this is how this evening is going."

"Okay." Her voice shifts into something more focused, the tone she uses when her brain has made a decision and is already three steps ahead. "I'm going to find Sunhee. You go find Namjoon and Jimin because we need Jimin's brain on this." A pause. "Then come find me at the aisle."

"We don't have an aisle-" "We'll make one," she says simply. "Go." He hears her heels on the stone, moving away, already gone.

Things move quickly once they've decided. Faster than either of them expected, which perhaps shouldn't be surprising given that the people they love have been coordinating a proposal for months and apparently the skill transfers seamlessly to an impromptu wedding.

Jimin takes point immediately, which is exactly why she asked for his brain. Within ten minutes he has quietly briefed the group, managed the mothers before they could reach a volume that would alert anyone not yet in the know, and somehow produced a playlist from his phone that he insists is perfect and nobody has the time to argue with.

___’s parents find her in their bedroom and close the door behind her without being asked. They don't say anything for a moment. Just looks at their daughter standing in the soft lamplight in her silk dress, rings on her fingers, eyes still slightly bright from the proposal, and something moves across her face that is too large for words.

Her mother's hand comes up to her mouth. Her father stands very still, the way he goes still when something is too large to move through quickly, and just looks at her with the expression he has worn at every significant moment of her life. Her first gallery show. Her first time leaving for a trip alone. Every arrival and every departure.

He has always looked at her like she is his greatest achievement and his greatest pride and the thing he is most afraid of losing all at once. "Hi," ___ says softly, because someone has to start.

Her mother laughs, wet and immediate, crossing the room in three steps and folding her into her arms the way she has since ___ was small. ___ goes into it completely, her chin on her mother's shoulder, eyes closing. "My baby," her mother murmurs, into her hair. 

Her father waits, he opens his arms, and ___ walks into them the way she has her entire life, without thinking, without hesitating. "Dad," she says, muffled against his shoulder. “I know you two have always wanted a big wedding for me-” ___ is cut off almost immediately by her father.

“___ all we’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy” She opens her mouth. He continues, quietly, "Not a specific kind of happy. Not a happy that looks a particular way or happens in a particular venue in April with flowers your mother and Mrs. Min have been arguing about for six months." The corner of his mouth moves.

Her mother makes a sound behind them that confirms the April venue discussion has been very real and very ongoing. "You are so happy, ___. Every time I see you with him." He exhales slowly. "That's all it was ever about." She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Now." He straightens slightly, composing himself , "A big wedding would have been lovely, but this?" He glances toward the window, toward the bonfire light and the sound of their people settling into place, Jimin's soft playlist drifting through the walls. "This is more you."

She laughs, wet and sudden. "It's completely insane." "It's completely you," he corrects, warmly. "Which has never been the same as insane." He considers this. "Usually."

Her father offers his arm, unhurried and steady. "Shall we?" he says.

"Don't let me cry through the whole thing," she says as she holds her father tightly.  "No promises," her father says, and his voice wavers just slightly on the last word, which tells her everything about how he's actually doing. She squeezes his arm once.

"Okay, Yoongi, snap out of it before you spiral more!" Jin's hands land on his shoulders, firm and immediate, the grip of a man who has managed this particular human through a significant number of life events and knows exactly how much force is required.

Yoongi is pacing. He has been pacing for approximately four minutes, which for him is the equivalent of a full breakdown. "Hyung, we're being totally stupid aren't we," he says, to Jin, to the garden, to the general concept of his own decision making. "This is not going to-"

"Snap out of it." Jimin materializes on his other side, "You love her. She loves you. This is happening."

"We decided this forty minutes ago-" "Great decisions are made quickly," Jin says, with great authority.

"That is not true-" "Yoongi." Jin speaks as he looks Yoongi square in the eyes,  the way he has since they were young, direct and without ceremony. "Look at me."

"Do you want to marry her?" "Yes, obviously, that's not-" "Do you want to marry her tonight?" A pause, shorter than it should be. "Yes." "Then what," Jin says, releasing him, straightening his suit jacket with two efficient tugs, "is the problem."

"Nothing, and you better not ruin this for us or for you." Mrs. Min's voice comes softly from one of the chairs, and every man in the vicinity goes slightly still.

She is sitting with the particular composure of a woman who has been through a great deal of emotion this evening and has arrived, finally, at something quieter on the other side of it. She looks at her son with the expression she has worn at every significant moment of his life, every stage, every milestone, every time he has done something that reminded her of exactly who he is.

"Mom-" Yoongi starts. "Let me finish," she says, gently but firmly. He closes his mouth. "Is this the shotgun wedding I imagined for you?" she says. "No.", The corner of her mouth moves. "Mrs. Lee and I had very strong feelings about the decor"

"But." She stands, slowly, and crosses to him, and takes his face in her hands the way she has since he was small, her thumbs against his jaw, tilting his face down toward hers. "You are marrying the love of your life. Tonight. Surrounded by every single person who loves you both." Her voice holds, just barely. "And that trumps everything else. It trumps all of it."

Yoongi says nothing. His jaw shifts slightly beneath her hands. "You deserve her," she says quietly. "You deserve the love you feel for her. And you deserve the love she has for you, which is" she stops, collects herself, continues, "considerable. And patient. And exactly what I always hoped someone would feel for you."

She smooths his lapel with the same two efficient tugs Jin used, and then looks at him one final time.  The quiet that follows is the warm kind. Yoongi looks at his mother for a long moment. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, brief and certain, the way he does things when words aren't enough and he knows it.

She pats his cheek once and turns back to her chair with great composure. "Someone get me a tissue," she says, to no one in particular, and sits back down. 

The garden has already started to come together around them. What began as a proposal venue only a few hours earlier has somehow transformed into a wedding venue through a combination of family determination, questionable decision-making, and an overwhelming refusal from everyone present to let practicality interfere with romance.

The flowers intended for the engagement have been rearranged and redistributed across the lawn. Strings of lights weave through the trees overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow as evening settles over the cabin. Blankets have been draped across chairs against the November chill, and candles appear to be multiplying every time somebody looks away for more than a minute.

“If everyone can please take a seat, we will be starting with the ceremony soon” Jimin announces to the small crowd of family and friends. Namjoon calls out eventually as he makes his way forward. "Everybody sit down before they change their minds" 

People begin settling into the mismatched collection of chairs. The evening has grown cooler now, the last traces of daylight disappearing behind the hills as the lights overhead become brighter against the darkening sky. Yoongi stands near the edge of the lawn with his parents beside him.

“Are you nervous son?” his father asks softly, and Yoongi chuckles before he can even answer, “A little, am I supposed to be?” he asks candidly. “Yes, because this matters to you” his father answers briefly as his eyes trail off, watching his wife walk towards them. 

For a moment they stand there together, the three of them, while the garden settles around them. Guests continue taking their seats, conversations growing quieter with every passing second, the excitement slowly giving way to anticipation.

The music begins again, soft enough to blend into the sounds of the evening, and almost immediately Jimin appears with the focused determination of a man who has appointed himself wedding coordinator despite nobody technically assigning him the role.

"Okay, everyone is seated. We are doing this properly," he announces, pointing toward the aisle before anyone can object. "Min’s, you're up first." Yoongi laughs incredulously, shaking his head as Jimin begins directing people with alarming confidence.

He catches sight of familiar faces as they pass, friends and family smiling back at him, some openly emotional, others looking entirely too pleased with themselves for helping facilitate what will undoubtedly become a family story for decades. 

His mother reaches for his hand briefly, squeezing it once before letting go, while his father rests a hand against his shoulder for a moment, the gesture carrying more affection than either of them would ever comfortably put into words. 

The aisle empties as he turns around, standing right by Namjoon who flashes him a quick smile and for the first time all evening, Yoongi finds himself looking toward the cabin door, waiting for the woman who is about to become his wife.

The soft Hawaii wind sways them softly as ___ sighs back into Yoongi’s chest as they stare at the vast ocean. “It’s so beautiful” she murmurs as Yoongi continues to rub circles around her waist. “It is” Yoongi murmurs as he plasters a big kiss on her cheek.

It only took them four months to plan a honeymoon after the quick wedding, and the destination was pre decided, Hawaii. The trip came right as they registered their marriage, let their parents throw them a big reception in the city and Yoongi made an announcement on his Instagram, he kept it simple, a lovesick picture from their wedding day.

"Mr. and Mrs. Min," A concierge appears at their elbow with the quiet efficiency of someone trained never to look like an interruption. "My apologies for the wait. Your Villa is ready." Yoongi just nods, his hand steady at her waist as they follow him inside. The suite is everything the pictures promised and somehow still more than that, all warm wood and white linen and floor to ceiling glass looking straight out at the water. 

“It’s gorgeous” ___ comments the second the concierge is done talking their through the Villa’s details. “It is, and as a congratulations for your wedding, we’ve arranged for complimentary couples massages for today, please let me know what time would work for you” the concierge says and ___’s eyes drift to her nametag, not remembering her name. 

“And as a congratulations on your wedding, we've arranged complimentary couples massages, just let us know what time works best for you," the concierge adds, and ___ glances at her nametag. "Thank you, Sarah, but I think my husband has already arranged something for us." The word husband comes out easily, which still surprises her sometimes, she almost instinctively intertwines her hands with his.

Sarah smiles, and then her eyes drift to Yoongi for just a second too long, the particular kind of recognition she's trying to be professional about and not quite managing. "Of course, Mr. Min. We're huge fans, by the way. If there's anything at all you need during your stay."

Yoongi thanks her politely, the practiced warmth he has for these moments, and Sarah excuses herself with one last smile that is maybe thirty percent for ___ and seventy percent for him. ___ watches this with great patience.

"She was a fan," ___ observes pleasantly, the moment the door closes. "She was doing her job," Yoongi mumbles, still a bit groggy as he goes back to hugging ___, his hands back on her warm stomach. "She was doing her job for you specifically." ___ talks pointedly as she turns around, her hands at the nape of his neck.

Yooogi lips twitch with a smirk as he looks down at ___, she has the expression of someone making a completely reasonable observation, which makes it worse somehow. He presses his lips together. "Are you jealous?" he frames it as a question knowing he is right because ___ immediately digs her nails into his hair.

"I was just making an observation," she says, turning back to face the ocean, the strap of her tank top slipping off her shoulder in the process. Yoongi smiles and kisses her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin softly, unhurried, like he has no intention of stopping anytime soon. "I'm madly in love with you," he murmurs against her skin, his voice low and warm. "I don't even notice anyone else."

His hands travel upward slowly, one cupping her breast, the other running along her waist, her ribs, back again. She doesn't answer immediately, just takes a slow breath as his fingers graze her nipple, soft and deliberate, until she melts back deeper into his chest with a quiet moan.

"I only want to love you," he murmurs between kisses pressed along her neck, her jaw, her shoulder. "Only want to touch you. I only want to kiss you." He turns her around gently, her back now to the ocean and her face tipped up toward him, it’s the same smile, the smile that makes almost everything not matter to him. 

There isn’t much talking as ___ lunges forward to kiss him very desperately as his hands picking her up almost instantly, he walks toward the bed without breaking the kiss, his hands secure and warm, and she goes willingly, fingers digging into his hair. 

They have nowhere to be, no schedules, no flights, no timezones working against them. It takes her a moment to register that fully, the specific luxury of it, and when she does she slows down slightly, her hands stilling against his chest.

He notices immediately, the way he notices everything about her. "You okay?" his eyes are immediately filled with worry when it takes her a second too long to answer. 

"We have nowhere to be," ___ mutters like this is only occurring to her, Yoongi can’t help but chuckle as he sits down on the bed, her cradling in his lap

He looks at her for a second, hen he reaches up and moves her hands gently from his shirt, takes his time with the buttons himself. "I know," he says quietly. "So stop rushing." Her hands find his face instead, thumbs brushing along his jaw, and he lets her, eyes on hers, unhurried. Outside the glass the sun is beginning its slow descent toward the water and the light coming through, casting a golden light to the room, warm and golden and entirely unconcerned with them.

"Wanna fuck Mr Min?," she asks softly as he pushes off his, standing against the blinding light as she rids all the clothes off her, The smile that comes over his face is the unguarded one, the full version, “Yes please Mrs Min” He barely finishes the sentence before she captures his lips again, her hands at his jaw, pulling him back down to her.

He walks her backward onto the bed, following her down slowly, his hands running the full length of her like he's in no particular hurry, like he wants to take stock of her in this light specifically, warm and golden and completely his. She arches into his touch, fingers curling into his shoulders.

"You're staring," she murmurs, "You’re gorgeous" he adds, and dips his head to press a kiss just below her collarbone, then lower, his hands spreading warm at her waist. She exhales slowly, her fingers finding their way back into his hair. 

Outside the villa the sun keeps sinking toward the water, unhurried, the two of them equally so, the whole long week stretching out ahead of them with nowhere to be and nothing to interrupt it. For the first time in as long as either of them can remember, there is genuinely nothing else.

It's day four of the honeymoon when they both desperately need something familiar. They have a few Korean options nearby but settle on an ox bone soup place without much debate, ___ has been craving it for days and Yoongi knows better than to suggest otherwise.

"This is exactly what I needed," she sighs, taking the last of her rice and mixing it into the broth for the final few bites, the particular satisfaction of someone who has been waiting for this specific thing.

Yoongi chuckles softly, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, reaching over without looking to wipe a grain of rice from her cheek. "She's great, we went on a hike today so we're both a little exhausted," he continues into the phone, and then simply eats the grain of rice off his thumb like that's a completely normal thing to do.

"The pictures look so beautiful. Are you happy, son?" Mrs. Min asks. Yoongi looks up to find ___ very focused on her bowl, chasing the last of the broth with great dedication. "Very much," he says, and means it simply. "Honey, should I order more rice?"

She mutters a no between bites without looking up. "Can I talk to her?" Mrs. Min asks and he hands the phone across the table without ceremony. ___ takes it, swallowing quickly. "Hi Mrs. Min," she says cheerfully and Yoongi goes back to eating, the hike having taken everything out of both of them.

"Mrs. Min? You're Mrs. Min too now, we've talked about this. It's just mom," Mrs. Min says warmly, and ___ gently bites her lip. They have had this conversation several times now, in varying degrees of seriousness.

"I know, I'm still getting used to it," she says, watching her husband eat quietly across the table, his eyes down, giving absolutely nothing away. “It’s fine, take your time, but not too long”  Mrs Min adds with a teasing tone. 

"A few packages of yours arrived at the apartment, I left them in the guest room when I came to water the plants," Mrs. Min continues, and Yoongi can feel ___'s eyes drift from the phone call to the rest of his food. He constructs the perfect spoonful without looking up, broth and meat in the right ratio, and holds it out. ___ takes the bite immediately, still listening to his mother, like they have been doing it for years.

"And you were right, your neighbour downstairs is definitely an actor, he was very deliberately not making eye contact with me in the lobby," Mrs. Min continues, delivering this with the gravity of someone who has been sitting on the information and is very pleased to finally release it.

"I knew it," ___ says, pointing at Yoongi across the table. He raises his eyebrows. She's been saying this about the neighbour since they moved in, with the conviction of someone whose instincts are never wrong about these things and knows it. "Yoongi didn't believe me."

"Maybe you should listen to your wife," ___ starts, and stops mid sentence when another spoonful appears in front of her face, Yoongi holding it out with complete nonchalance, eyes elsewhere, like he's barely aware he's doing it. 

"I always listen to you," Yoongi says pleasantly. "When have I not?" "That is true," ___ concedes, which costs her nothing because it's accurate. There's a quiet on Mrs. Min's end that has too much warmth in it. "You two," she says finally, softly, the words carrying something that isn't quite a complete sentence and doesn't need to be.

"What?" ___ asks. "Nothing. I'm just very happy." A small pause, and then with the casual precision of a woman who has been waiting for the right moment, "A happy honeymoon is what leads to children, so extend your vacation by all means if you come back with some good news."

"Mom!" ___ stutters, the word slipping out entirely on its own, propelled purely by embarrassment. She's been getting this from her own mother for weeks now and apparently the other one has coordinated.

Yoongi looks up from his bowl, mildly puzzled, trying to read the situation from her face alone.Mrs. Min, to her credit, lets the stutter settle for exactly one second before she says, very softly, "You called me mom."

___ closes her eyes briefly. "I noticed." Yoongi mouths what across the table. ___ shakes her head at him, which tells him everything. He reaches over and takes his phone back gently. "Mom, let us breathe, we just got married."

"I'm just saying," Mrs. Min says serenely, "the timing would be lovely." "Goodbye mom," Yoongi says, and hangs up before she can agree with herself any further. He looks at ___ as he sets the phone down. She's already looking at him with the expression of someone who has just survived something and needs a moment. 

"Don't take her too seriously, we decided to wait two years," Yoongi reassures her as he flags down the server. He waits for a response but gets only a soft nod, and then the server is back with the bill and the card machine and the moment passes.

They did decide to wait two years. It was a logical, sensible conversation that they had like two logical, sensible adults, enjoy the marriage first, travel, sleep in, be selfish with their time for a little while longer. ___ had agreed completely and meant it.

She still means it, mostly. The emotional tug is a recent development, and she's fairly certain Hawaii is to blame. Four days of Yoongi with nowhere to be and nothing pulling at him, which means four days of him at his most himself, unhurried and attentive in that quiet way of his, remembering exactly how she takes her coffee, reapplying sunscreen on the back of her neck without being asked, looking at her in the golden late afternoon light like she's the most interesting thing in any room he's ever been in.

And then there's the fitted t-shirt situation, which is frankly unreasonable and she feels she should be able to raise it formally somewhere. She watches him tap his card against the machine, easy and unbothered, and thinks that he's going to be a terrifyingly good father and that two years is simultaneously the right call and a very long time.

She doesn't say any of this. She picks up her bag and stands up. "Ready?" "Yeah," he says, and holds the door open for her, reaching for her hand almost immediately once they're outside, the recent clinginess of a man who has apparently decided that being married means he needs to be touching her at all times. She lets him, fingers threading through his.

"What is it? You've been quiet," he says, and then, reading her correctly as he always does, "I'll talk to my mother about all this." "Are you sure we should wait two years?" ___ interrupts as they get back into the car, the question coming out more plainly than she'd intended. "It's not like I'm getting any younger."

"Don't say that," Yoongi says quietly, the lightness leaving his voice. "I'm just being practical." she adds and Yoongi sighs, sinking deeper into the seat. A discussion like this, at this hour, after a full day of hiking, can easily spiral if they're not careful and they both know it. 

"You're only thirty three ___, that’s young-” "It is, but I'm also not twenty five. What if I have fertility issues already? What if we can't conceive? We should have really discussed this in more detail before we got married," ___ rambles, and he recognises the particular quality of it, not an argument, just nerves finding the nearest exit.

Yoongi is quiet for a moment. "Have you been worried about this for a while?" She opens her mouth and closes it. "Not actively. It just, it comes up sometimes." He reaches over and takes her hand in the dark of the car, not saying anything immediately, just holding it. The villa lights come into view ahead of them, warm and familiar after four days.

"We can see a doctor when we get back," he says simply. "Both of us. Get everything checked, know exactly where we stand." He glances at her. "Then we decide together, with actual information. Not just fear."

___ looks at him for a second. This is the thing about him that still catches her off guard sometimes, how quickly he moves from emotion to solution without making her feel dismissed. "Just like that?" "Just like that," he says. 

"We're not waiting two years because it's a rule. We're waiting because we thought we wanted to. If that's changed, it's changed." The car stops but neither of them moves immediately. "I'm not pressuring you, am I?" ___ asks softly.

Yoongi takes a deep breath. "___, we're married. We're supposed to talk to each other, we're allowed to have a change of heart. But I also don't want us making decisions out of fear, that's not a good place to start something like this."

She nods slowly, looking down at their hands. "You're right." "I usually am," he says, and she laughs despite herself, the tension in the car loosening slightly. He squeezes her hand once. "Let's make a deal. We enjoy the rest of this honeymoon, we go home, we see a doctor together and we know what we're actually working with. Then we have the real conversation."

"And if everything is fine?" "Then we decide what we want, not what we originally planned." He looks at her steadily. "Plans change. That's allowed." She's quiet for a moment, and he lets her be, the way he always does when she needs to sit with something before she can respond to it properly. 

"Okay," she says finally, "Okay," he repeats, and brings her hand up briefly, pressing his lips to her knuckles in that quiet way of his that says more than most people manage with full sentences. "Now can we please go to bed, my legs are still dead from that hike"

Hawaii is long forgotten the second they get busy with their lives, the professional ones they'd set aside for a while. It happens quickly the way it always does, ___ with a string of artist trips planned, Yoongi and the members deep in the final stretch of the album. Two months pass and the memory of salt water and nowhere to be becomes something distant and warm, the kind of thing you reach for briefly before the next schedule pulls you forward.

Yoongi sits in the conference room, the album played back so many times now that he hears it in his sleep. They're close, a few decisions away from done, which somehow makes the disagreements harder.

"Love Song should be the title," Hoseok says, with the conviction of someone who has been saying this for three days. "It's the kind of song that pulls people in immediately."

Jimin nods. Namjoon and Yoongi say nothing, which in this room means they're thinking something different and choosing the right moment to say it.

"The intro is too soft for a title track," Namjoon starts carefully. "That's the point-" Hoseok begins. Yoongi's phone lights up on the table. He glances at it, ___. He picks up without excusing himself from the conversation, which the members clock immediately. "Hey, you land?"

Her voice on the other end is wrong. Too quiet, slightly unsteady, the particular quality it gets when she's running on no sleep and something else she hasn't named yet. "I'm outside. I know you're in a session, I just, can I come up for a few minutes? I just need to be there with you."

“Of course, where are you?” Yoongi asks, trying his best to manage his sudden panic, there are knocks on the door before ___ can answer. Mr Shin and her standing on the other side, Yoongi is across the room before anyone says anything. She lets out a long breath the second he reaches her, like she'd been holding it since Hong Kong. He takes the carry on from her without a word, his other hand finding the small of her back, steering her gently inside.

"Sorry," she says quietly, to the room, to no one specifically, her voice still not entirely even. “Can we talk, just us, we’ll only be a few minutes” ___ tells the members who nod rapidly with support. Yoongi just shuts the door behind them as he leads them to their studio. 

“Baby what’s wrong? You’re scaring me” he mutters as the door to his studio shuts, finally just them in his dimly lit studio. "I don't think it's wrong, I just," she stops, pressing her hands together, "I needed you to be here when I, oh god." She laughs, slightly hysterical, pacing the small room in a way that tells him her brain has been going like this since somewhere over the Pacific.

"Hey." He steps in front of her, stopping the pacing simply by being in the way. "Whatever it is, just say it." She looks at him, then at her carry on, then back at him. "I might be pregnant." The words come out in a rush. "I picked up tests on the way here because I needed you to be there when I took them and I didn't know where else to go and the flight was fourteen hours and I've been sitting with this the whole time and I just-"

"Okay," he says, very quietly, very steadily, she stares at him. "Okay?" "Okay," he says again, and takes her hand. "Where are the tests?" It's quiet in the small studio bathroom, ___ doing what needs to be done and setting the tests by the sink before burying herself in Yoongi's chest, both of them standing in the dim light waiting.

"I was so nauseous the whole time in Hong Kong," she starts, the rambling returning now that the worst of the telling is over. "And my client made a joke, he said maybe you're pregnant, because I couldn't be in the same room as the chicken they'd ordered, and I laughed it off but then I realised I'm three weeks late and I just." She exhales. "I couldn't think straight after that."

Yoongi runs his fingers slowly through her hair, a weak attempt to calm her down that is equally a weak attempt to calm himself down, and she can feel that in the way his hand isn't quite steady. "Three weeks," he says, more to himself than to her.

They stand like that, not looking at the tests, not yet, her face pressed into his shirt and his chin resting on top of her head, the timer on his phone counting down quietly on the edge of the sink. "We had a plan," she mumbles into his chest. "We had a fertility appointment next week for god's sake."

"___," he starts and the timer goes off. Neither of them moves for a second. Then Yoongi pulls back gently, just enough to reach past her, and picks up the test. She watches his face instead of looking herself, the way she has always read difficult information through him first, and she sees it immediately. The particular stillness that comes over him, the jaw shift, the eyes going soft in a way she has only seen a handful of times.

"Yoongi." He looks at her, and his expression does something completely unguarded, something she doesn't have a word for yet, the look of a man whose entire chest has just quietly rearranged itself. He turns the test toward her.

Three positive tests, ___ stares at it for a long moment. Then her eyes fill, fast and immediate, and she doesn't try to stop them. "Oh," she says softly, which is the only word that comes.

He pulls her back in without saying anything, his arms wrapping around her fully, and she feels him press his lips to the top of her head and stay there, breathing slowly, his whole body exhaling something enormous and quiet into her hair.

"Oh my god, can we get an emergency sonogram, should we call Sunhee-" she starts, pulling back, the shock giving way to the part of her brain that needs to do something immediately.

"Hey." His hands come up to her face, gentle and certain, tilting it up toward his. "Breathe first." "I am breathing-" His thumbs brush along her jaw, and she feels some of the frantic energy in her chest settle slightly under his hands. "We can call Sunhee. We can get a sonogram. We can do all of it." He looks at her steadily. "But first just, be here for a second."

She looks at him, really looks at him, and sees it again, that quiet undone expression from when he turned the test toward her. "Are you happy?" she asks softly, because she needs to hear it plainly.

He lets out a long breath, the kind that carries something too large for a single exhale. "I'm terrified," he says honestly. Then, quieter, "I'm so happy I don't know what to do with it. I love you, every day more somehow."

"Okay," she says, her voice catching, "because I love you too, I just, I can't believe I'm..." she stops, laughs softly at herself for not being able to finish the sentence, the word still too large to say out loud in this small bathroom. "We're going to be parents."

"We are," he says, like he's trying it out, seeing how it sits, "You're going to be a dad." Something shifts in his expression at that, something she files away carefully, the particular look of a man genuinely blindsided by his own feelings. "Yoongi."

"Give me a second," he says quietly, which is the most honest thing he could say as he gets very emotional, the more he think, the more he spirals internally, "We need to get you home. Did you drink coffee today? Can you drink coffee? Oh god, did you eat enough protein on the flight, airline food has no-"

"Yoongi." "The carry on, I'll take the carry on, you shouldn't be-" "I just found out thirty seconds ago, I think I can still carry my own bag-" "You've been carrying it since Hong Kong, that's hours, that's not-" He stops himself, runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. 

She watches him do it with the expression of someone trying very hard not to find this completely adorable. "Sorry," he says. "I'm spiraling." "A little bit," she agrees kindly.

"I just need to." He gestures vaguely at nothing. "Do something." "I know." She takes his hand, steadying him the way he steadied her few minutes ago, the two of them taking turns at it. "I’ll call Sunhee first. She'll tell us exactly what we need to do and in what order and it'll give your brain something to work with."

He nods, already reaching for her again, it’s been a heavy couple minutes but he can find a second to kiss her, his eyes brimming with tears almost immediately. She reaches up and wipes carefully beneath his eye with her thumb, and he lets her, which is how she knows exactly how undone he actually is. "We're going to be okay," she says quietly.

"I know," he says. "I know we are." He exhales slowly, pressing one careful kiss to her forehead, then straightens, collecting himself with visible effort. "Call Sunhee."

"Twins?" Jimin, Namjoon and Hoseok exclaim in unison as Yoongi finishes rambling, the three of them staring at him from across the studio sofa with varying degrees of shock on their faces.

They'd had the first sonogram that morning. Sunhee had pulled strings, gotten them in quickly, held ___'s hand through the initial panic and then looked at the screen with the particular stillness of a doctor trying to stay professional about something that is not professionally neutral. "So," she'd said carefully, "there are two heartbeats"

___ had gone completely silent. Yoongi had said what three times before Sunhee showed them both. "Twins," Jimin repeats, slower this time, like the word needs a second pass. "A month along, both healthy, and yes, twins," Yoongi confirms, running a hand through his hair. 

"And I couldn't freak out because ___ was already freaking out and someone had to be reasonable and I was reasonable for two hours and now I need to not be reasonable for a few minutes."

"Two children, Namjoon. Two, at once, in Seoul, with our apartment, the studio visits she has planned through spring, our album rollout-" He stops. "I need to call my accountant."

"You don't need an accountant, you need to breathe," Hoseok says. "I need both." Yoongi sits down heavily on the sofa. The members are quiet for a moment, looking at him with the collective expression of people who are extremely happy for someone and are also watching that someone have a mild crisis in real time.

Jimin puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hyung." "What." "Twins," he says, and smiles so widely it takes up most of his face. "You're going to have twins."

Yoongi looks at him for a long second. Something in his expression cracks open slightly, the panic giving way to something underneath it that has been there since the sonogram, since he saw two heartbeats on a screen in a small room with his wife gripping his hand hard enough to lose circulation. 

"Where is ___?" Hoseok asks, handing him a bottle of water.

"At the office cancelling her upcoming work trips because apparently she can't fly right now and Sunhee broke that news with very little warning and ___ took it better than I expected which actually worried me more." He uncaps the water, takes a long sip. "Where is Jin hyung? He has children, he's done this, he knows the order of operations. Do I need to set up two separate trusts? Is that something I do now? Are they individual trusts or-"

"Hyung," Namjoon says carefully. "I'm just asking." "You're spiraling and financial planning." "That's not what I'm-" He stops and exhales. "That might be what I'm doing." Jimin takes the water bottle from him gently before he crushes it. "Jin hyung is in Jeju until Thursday," Hoseok offers. "But I can call him."

"Call him," Yoongi says immediately. "You also have google," Namjoon notes. "I've been googling since the sonogram and that was a mistake, do not google twins pregnancy complications, I'm begging you, I made that mistake for the both of us already." this only makes the spiral worse and Jimin softly kicks Namjoon for that.

"Okay," Jimin says, redirecting with the practiced ease of someone who has been managing this particular human for over a decade. "We have the photoshoot tomorrow morning. So how about until then you go home to your wife and actually take care of her instead of sitting here catastrophizing at us?"

Yoongi looks at him. Then at the others. Then at his phone which Jimin still hasn't given back. "She said she was fine," he says, but he's already standing. 

"Go home hyung," all three of them say, in varying tones but with identical intention. He goes, pausing only to take his phone back from Jimin, who releases it with the expression of someone making a calculated decision. Yoongi is halfway down the hall when he turns back briefly. "Don't tell anyone."

"Obviously," Jimin says. "Not even Taehyung-" "Go home," Jimin says, pointing toward the exit with great finality, and Yoongi goes.

Yoongi does return home, with groceries that he’s gotten approved by Sunhee, it’s going to be a busy nine months for Sunhee as well. He swipes through his phone, calling her and it rings inside their bedroom. 

___ is deep asleep, her breathing evening out as she stays still, Yoongi noticing his shirt she chose right away. He tiptoes around the room, and gets into bed beside her with the careful movements of someone trying not to disturb anything. She stirs anyway, turning toward him automatically the way she always does, her eyes barely open.

"You came home," she murmurs. "Jimin kicked me out," he says, and pulls her in gently, her back to his chest, his arm settling warm around her middle, careful, more deliberate than usual. She notices, of course she notices.

"I went on the internet and with twins I'm going to get so massive honey, like the pictures I saw-" "I think for the sake of this pregnancy we should both abstain from googling anything and just bother Sunhee directly," he says, and she laughs despite herself, the sound still slightly frayed at the edges from the day.

"For now we just need to focus on you being happy and healthy. Now that you're up, should I make you dinner? From today, lots of folic acid, iron rich foods, actual protein, no more freeballing with meals-” but all I want right now is a cheeseburger” ___ mutters and almost immediately the arms around her are gone. 

“I’m going to make one, well two, three? As many as you want”

“How do we tell our parents? Our dad’s are going to be chill, but the mom’s” ___ is huddled over a counter with a massive blanket while Yoongi eats, she has no heart to tell him that’s she’s losing her appetite by the second. 

“I don’t know, I am scared of what they’d do” Yoongi talks distractedly as he hands her a glass of water. ___ pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, looking down at the glass of water, then back up at him. She should tell him about the appetite situation. She will, in a minute. "Should we tell them together? Separately? Do we call or do it in person?"

"In person," Yoongi says immediately. "Definitely in person. My parents would never forgive a phone call for something like this." "So we have them over."

"Together or separately?" he asks, which is a real question because both options carry significant risk.

They look at each other, "Separately," they say at the same time, which means they've both already imagined what the two mothers in the same room simultaneously receiving this information would look like and have made a sensible decision.

"I think we call your parents for lunch, give them the news and then immediately schedule my parents for dinner so there's no gap, because whoever finds out first is not going to sit on it for more than twenty minutes," ___ says, with the certainty of someone who knows exactly which mothers she is dealing with.

"That's smart," Yoongi says, plating the burgers with carrot sticks and celery alongside because fries would be pushing it, day one and all. 

She pulls the plate toward her, picks up the burger and takes one bite and then sets it back down, which he notices immediately but says nothing about, just slides the glass of water closer to her hand. "Is this what having twins is like, making sure each feels loved and constantly-" she stops, gesturing vaguely at nothing, trying to locate the end of the sentence.

"Equally attended to?" Yoongi offers, "Yes." 

Yoongi goes away for work in the ninth month, a single schedule he'd specifically asked to be kept clear, one that got filled anyway with the particular inevitability of things that happen despite everyone's best intentions. He's in the car from the airport now, Jimin beside him, the message from Sunhee sitting open on his phone.

"Hyung, you're going white," Jimin says. "We're almost there." "I know." Yoongi presses his hand against his forehead, elbow on the window, trying to breathe with some regularity. His leg won't stop moving. "I know, I just, I specifically asked for January to be clear, I said it in every single planning meeting-"

"I know." "I was very clear" "You were," Jimin agrees, with the tone of someone who is going to say whatever keeps this man functional for the next twenty minutes.

The hospital corridor is busy in the contained way hospitals always are, and Yoongi moves through it too quickly, Jimin half jogging to keep up. He follows the directions Sunhee sent, rounds the corner toward the right wing, already bracing himself, already trying to locate some version of calm he can walk in with.

He pushes open the door and to his surprise ___ is watching something on the television mounted to the wall, blanket pulled up, expression entirely unbothered. Both mothers are seated quietly on either side of the room, hands folded, posture suggesting they have been gently but firmly told to stay calm and are doing their best.

“Honey? I thought your water broke, why are you still here?” Yoongi asks as he comes closer, doing his best to detect any signs of discomfort. "Because I'm not dilated enough yet, we still have a few hours-" she says, which is when both fathers walk in behind Yoongi, carrying the collective anxiety he'd brought through the door and then some.

"We got you ice chips, coconut water, a banana and a yoghurt," Mr. Lee announces, setting everything down on the bedside table with great care. "There's also fruit available at the nurses station, oatmeal, applesauce," Mr. Min adds, slightly breathless, "and the nurse mentioned popsicles, she said you can have a popsicle, what flavour would you like, I'll go back-"

"Dads," ___ says, addressing all three of them with the calm authority of someone who has been managing people's emotions through her own discomfort for several hours already. "If I need anything I will ask you. There is no need for any of you to be panicking. I am the one who is going to be pushing two children out of me, so I am going to need some peace and zen in this room, please." 

The fathers migrate to the sofa with the quiet compliance of men who have been correctly identified and redirected, and Jimin finally steps forward from where he's been wisely staying out of it near the door.

"You're going to be running that household with an iron grip, aren't you," he says, and Yoongi laughs despite himself, still slightly pink from the reprimand. "Someone has to," ___ says pleasantly.

"Fair enough." Jimin leans down and kisses her cheek. "Good luck with the pushing." He straightens, considering something. "Should I go find Sunhee and flirt with her a little, make sure she's in a good mood for the delivery? I feel like I should contribute something to this situation." He's already moving toward the door. "You know what, I'm going to find her anyway."

"Jimin come back here," ___ says, modulating between wanting to raise her voice and maintaining the zen she just instructed everyone else to have. Jimin comes back, to his credit, with the expression of someone who knows he's walked into something.

"You and Sunhee and your little situation," she continues, keeping her voice low and even, which is somehow more effective than if she'd raised it. "Having your fun, hooking up with my best friend and thinking she's not going to give me every single detail."

"She tells you things?" Jimin asks, with genuine alarm. "She tells me everything, Jimin, we've been friends for twenty years." Yoongi is very glad he is holding her hand and not standing where Jimin is standing. "I'd say it's more than just fun-" Jimin starts carefully.

"Then ask her to be your girlfriend," ___ says, the instruction delivered with the same calm authority she used on the fathers few minutes ago. "You either ask her properly or you leave her alone entirely. No more avoiding your feelings and having-" she lowers her voice another register, acutely aware of the four parents seated six feet away on the sofa, "-crazy sex behind our backs while she pretends she's fine with the arrangement."

Jimin opens his mouth. "I thought we were just, it's not an arrangement exactly, it's more like we have the sex without the dinner part that usually comes before it," he says, and even as the words leave his mouth the realization is visibly arriving, crossing his face in slow stages like a weather system moving in.

"Jimin," ___ says patiently. "That's," he stops, "That's just dating but worse isn't it." "That's just dating but worse," she confirms. Yoongi looks at the ceiling with the expression of a man choosing not to be involved in this at all, which is the correct choice and he knows it.

"Today?" Jimin asks finally, gesturing at the general situation, the hospital room, the monitors, the parents on the sofa. "What better day," ___ says. "I'm literally bringing new life into the world, it's a very good omen." She settles back against her pillow with great finality.

"Jimin, do the right thing," ___ says, with the particular finality of someone closing a topic. "Or I will call your mother and I will have some very strong words to share with her. I do not care that you're a multi millionaire BTS member."

"Yes ma'am," Jimin says immediately, with the energy of someone who believes this threat completely and has no interest in testing it. He's out the door before anyone can say anything further.

Yoongi watches her with the expression he gets when she's done something that he finds both slightly alarming and deeply attractive and doesn't know what to do with that information given the current setting. "Now," she says, taking a sip, "is Jungkook downstairs or not, because his ex called me a week ago and I have things to say to him."

From the sofa, both mothers look up with identical interest. "Absolutely not," Yoongi says, "you are not mediating Jungkook's relationship situation while you are in active labour."

"I'm in early labour, there's a difference, I have hours-" A contraction moves through her then, quiet but visible, her hand tightening around his. She breathes through it steadily. "Okay," she concedes quietly. "Jungkook can wait." "Thank you," Yoongi says, and doesn't let go of her hand. 

Their new home is swarming with people, the kind of warm chaos that comes from too many people who love each other in a space that is finally big enough to hold them. Yoongi had been quick about the house, once it became clear that their Seoul apartment was not going to survive twins, he'd found the place in nearby within two weeks, which ___ maintains is the fastest he has ever made any decision in his life including proposing.

"This is Jihan," Yoongi emerges into the living room with the particular confidence of a man who has spent three months learning how to carry two babies simultaneously, "and this is Jihee." One on each arm, both of them blinking at the room with the vague suspicion of people who have just woken up somewhere loud.

The room does what rooms do when two very small people enter them, every conversation stops. "Oh my god," Jimin says, from the sofa, already standing. "They're so tiny," Hoseok says, which earns him a look from ___, who appears from behind Yoongi looking like someone who has not slept properly in three months but has made her peace with it.

"They were smaller," ___ shares with a soft look in her eyes. "Can I-" Jimin is already crossing the room with his hands out, the question mostly rhetorical. "Wash your hands first," Yoongi and ___ say at the same time, without looking at each other, with the synchronized exhaustion of two people who have been saying this to every person who has come within three feet of their children for months.

Jimin goes to wash his hands. Taehyung is already behind him, then Hoseok, a quiet orderly queue forming with surprising efficiency given the general chaos of the evening.

Jungkook hangs back slightly, watching Jihan in Yoongi's arm with an expression that is doing several things at once. "Hyung," he says quietly. "He looks like you."

Yoongi looks down at his son. "You think?" "Around the eyes," Jungkook says, and something in his voice is soft in a way he's not trying to manage.

"Jihee has his frown," ___ adds from beside him, accepting Jihee back from Yoongi's arm and settling her against her chest with the ease of something practiced. "She's had it since day one. The nurses thought something was wrong. She just looked annoyed."

"She was annoyed," Yoongi says. "She came out second." The twins are eventually passed to the grandfathers, the two people who other than their parents can hold them without either of them immediately deciding the situation is unacceptable. 

"How are you two holding up?" Namjoon asks, dropping onto the sofa beside them. "Twins haven't broken you yet?" ___ looks at Yoongi, Yoongi looks at ___. The look lasts approximately one second too long. Namjoon reads this immediately. The couple might have gotten into a big argument about something insignificant right before the guests arrived. 

"Well I clearly touched an open wound," Namjoon says, rubbing the back of his neck. "We've been fighting more," ___ says, because she's never seen the point in being anything other than direct with Namjoon. "It's a lot more work than we expected. And not just a lot more, twice as much. Twice everything."

"Twice the feeds, twice the crying, twice the not sleeping" Yoongi adds. "We haven't slept properly in three months," ___ says, and the way she says it is very calm and also contains the entirety of what three months of not sleeping properly actually feels like.

Namjoon is quiet for a moment, which is the right instinct. "I'm not going to offer solutions because I genuinely don't know what this is like," he says, standing. "But talk to Jin hyung at some point tonight. He's done this." He looks between them once more with the expression of someone who loves them and knows when to leave well enough alone. "Now I'm going to go meet my niece and nephew."

"Wash your hands," they both say. "I know," he says, already heading toward the kitchen. ___ watches him go and then lets the sofa hold her for a moment, the party moving around them, voices and laughter and the particular warmth of a house full of people who showed up. Yoongi is still beside her, shoulder against hers, neither of them moving.

"We should talk about this morning," he says quietly as he brings his arm around her shoulder, bring her closer, "We should," she agrees as she folds up her feet and leans against his chest. 

Neither of them starts immediately, across the room Mr. Min is now showing Jihee the window with the same enthusiasm Mr. Lee had shown Jihan the ceiling light earlier, and Jihee is tolerating this with the expression she was born with, vaguely unimpressed, entirely her father's daughter.

"I know you said no full time help," Yoongi says quietly, his eyes fighting sleep and losing slightly, "but we need a nanny. I feel like we haven't had a single moment that's just us since they arrived." She doesn't argue, which tells him she's already been thinking the same thing and was waiting for one of them to say it first.

"And," he continues, quieter now, the party noise covering them adequately, "we haven't had sex since they arrived and I know you don't feel like yourself right now, I know that." He pauses, choosing the words carefully the way he does when something matters. "But you grew two human beings and then pushed them both out and I need you to know that is genuinely the most incredible thing I've ever watched anyone do. You have never been less attractive to me than you think you are right now."

She's quiet for a moment. He watches her process it, the particular way she receives a compliment she actually needed, not deflecting it immediately, just sitting with it. "That was a very long way of calling me sexy," she says finally.

"I was being thorough," he says, "because I really, really need to have sex with my wife." He adds the last part quietly enough that it stays between them, his head dropping to rest on top of hers. She laughs, soft and genuine, the first one that's reached her eyes all evening. "We should get a nanny," she says. "We're so fixated on doing everything ourselves that we're not taking care of each other at all."

She pulls the blanket from the back of the sofa over both of them without ceremony. "I thought it meant we were failing at being parents" "We're not failing," he says. "We're just two people who had twins and didn't ask for enough help."

"It feels like failure sometimes." "It's not." His hand finds hers under the blanket. "We're doing the most, ___, don't for a second think we're failing." She's quiet for a moment, looking across the room at her father, who has somehow gotten Jihan to sleep against his chest without moving a muscle, wearing the expression of a man who has discovered a superpower.

 "I just thought it would feel more natural by now," she says softly. "Everyone talks about how instinctive it all is and I'm still googling things at 3am and second guessing every decision."

"I googled whether babies can sense tension last week," Yoongi says. She turns to look at him. "What did it say?" "Nothing helpful." She laughs quietly. "My point is," he continues, "we're both doing that. All of it. Together. That's not failing, that's just what this looks like from the inside."

She leans into him a little more, the blanket warm, the party a comfortable noise around them. "I love them so much it's frightening sometimes," she says, almost to herself. "I know," he says. "Me too." His thumb moves slowly over her knuckles. "The frightening part means we care enough. That's not a bad sign."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, just sits with that, letting it settle somewhere it needed to go. Across the room Jihee is being passed carefully from Mrs. Min to Jin, who accepts her with the practiced ease of a man who has done this many times and knows exactly how to hold something this small and this important.

"We're good parents," Yoongi says quietly, like he's deciding it as he says it. "We're good parents," she repeats, trying it out and it doesn't feel like a lie. That's something.

Jihan is about two steps away from a painting when Yoongi swoops in and lifts him with one arm, the motion practiced and swift, the motion of a man who has been doing this for weeks now and has developed genuine reflexes around it. Jihee has his other hand in both of hers, holding on with the particular grip of a child who has decided she is in charge of this situation.

The twins can walk and that is all they want to do. Walk, and touch things, and walk toward things they should not touch. Last week Jihee walked directly across Yoongi's back at seven in the morning because he wouldn't get up, planting each small foot with great deliberateness, entirely unbothered by his protests.

"Okay, listen," Yoongi says, crouching down to Jihan's level while keeping one hand firmly on Jihee's, addressing his ten month old children with complete seriousness. "We need to look put together for mom tonight. This is not our home, so we are not touching anything, we are not walking into anything, and Jihan, specifically, we are not going anywhere near the art."

Jihan looks at him with the expression he was born with, vaguely considering, not yet convinced. "This show is important," Yoongi continues. "Mom worked on this before you two arrived and she's been working on it since and tonight is a big night for her so we are going to be good."

Jihee pats his knee agreeably and Jihan looks back at the painting. "Jihan." Jihan looks at him, the kids do understand what he says, at least to some degree. "No."

It had taken ___ longer to get back to work than she'd planned, longer than she'd wanted, the guilt of it pulling in two directions at once, the wanting to be home and the wanting to be here, in a gallery, doing the thing she spent years building. The show had been pushed twice. She hadn't complained about it once, at least not out loud, though Yoongi had seen it on her face on the difficult days and said nothing, just made sure the coffee was ready and the nanny's schedule was covered.

Tonight the gallery is full and warm and exactly as she'd imagined it, and she is across the room talking to a collector with the particular ease of someone back in their element, and Yoongi watches her from a safe distance with one child on his hip and one attached to his hand and thinks that she looks like herself again, fully, in a way that makes something in his chest loosen with quiet relief.

___ notices the leather jacket right away, the thing that started it all, a flash of memories come back to her as Jihee makes a determined attempt to pull the collar sideways while Yoongi adjusts it back without breaking his conversation with Namjoon.

Something moves through her chest, quiet and enormous. She excuses herself from the collector mid sentence, politely, with the promise of a follow up, and crosses the room. "Hi honey," ___ whispers as she appears at Yoongi's side, Jihan immediately latching onto her leg with both arms, the greeting of a child who has decided this is his preferred anchor point.

"Hi baby," Yoongi's voice is soft as he reaches over and pulls her in for a quick kiss, his lips lingering just above hers, not quite done, until Jihee plants a firm hand on his face and pushes with the casual authority. 

___ laughs against his mouth. "Are they all sold?" Yoongi asks, pulling back and removing Jihee's hand from his face gently. "Because I wanted to buy the one Jihan kept reaching for earlier. I think he has good taste." "Yoongi, that's a three million dollar painting."

"And our son likes it." "He also likes putting his hands in Tang's water bowl." "His taste is varied," Yoongi says, entirely unbothered. "It's a sign of a complex palate." She looks at him for a moment with the expression she reserves for when he's being completely serious about something she cannot tell if he's joking about. He looks back at her with complete straightness, “What? Something to remember the kids first gallery showing?”

Yoongi is a sentimental soft father, he walks the line of spoiling and parenting his children very dangerously, but he strikes the balance somehow. He’s saved so much so far, ___ wonders what’s going to happen when they start bringing home hand painted trees.

"I actually asked the artist to commission something for us," she says, and leads him through the gallery to a small rectangular oil painting hung near the back, away from the main collection, slightly apart, like it was always meant to be found rather than displayed.

Yoongi goes still when he sees it. It's his birthday, the artist has captured it exactly, the particular quality of that afternoon light, warm and slightly gold in an oil painting. Jihan on Yoongi's shoulders, both hands gripping his father's hair, Yoongi's hands steady at his ankles. ___ turned up toward Yoongi, Yoongi bent down toward her, mid kiss, neither of them paying attention to anything else. And Jihee in ___’s arms, face completely and without any apparent regret, in the birthday cake.

Yoongi looks at it for a long moment without saying anything. "The artist worked from the photo," ___ says quietly beside him. "I sent it to her in March and it just got ready." He nods once, slowly, still looking. Jihan, from his position attached to ___'s leg, spots the painting and points at it with one finger, recognizing something without having the words for what he's recognizing yet.

"That's you," Yoongi tells him, crouching down. "And that's your sister." He points at Jihee in the cake. "Very accurate." Jihee, as if sensing she is being discussed, looks at the painting and then looks away with something close to a smile.

Yoongi straightens up and looks at ___ and she can see it, the quiet undone expression that he still hasn't learned to hide from her after all this time. "Thank you," he says, and his voice is rough at the edges in a way he's not trying to manage.

"Happy late birthday," she says softly and Yoongi pulls her in with his free arm, careful of Jihan still attached to her leg, and presses a kiss to her temple and stays there for a moment. 

The house is quiet and warm, which is new. Not the middle of the night quiet, not the held breath quiet of two sleeping children, but a genuine, sustained, mid-morning quiet that stops Yoongi in the hallway for a moment because he can't immediately locate the source of it.

He's been in the US for three weeks. He's jet lagged in the particular way that makes everything slightly unreal at the edges, and he's been moving on autopilot since the airport, the car, the front door. He picks up a small shoe near the entrance automatically, then a stuffed animal from the hallway, then pauses because there are no other sounds. No small feet. No Jihee's running commentary on everything she encounters. No Jihan's focused, determined silence that always means he's doing something he shouldn't.

He checks the living room. The playroom. The kitchen, where there are dishes drying and a half drunk cup of coffee on the counter that has gone cold. 

He finds ___ in their bedroom, firmly, completely, and entirely asleep. Diagonal across the bed in the way she only sleeps when she has it entirely to herself, one arm over her face, dead to the world. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his hand on her shoulder gently. "Hey."

Nothing, "___." She makes a sound that is not a word and it’s his cue to talk, "Where are the kids?" A long pause settles as ___ tries her best to wake up, barely moving, "My mother picked them up, they’re going to stay with my parents for the weekend," she says finally, into the pillow. 

"Why though?" Yoongi asks, crawling into bed beside her. That wakes her up. Not all at once, but enough. She moves the arm from her face and looks at him with the particular stillness of someone confirming they heard correctly. Because it is not like Yoongi to forget things. It is especially not like Yoongi to forget this specific thing.

"Why though," she repeats, very evenly. He looks at her and it clicked almost instantly, he made the entire group move around their schedule just to be back for this weekend, "___-" "No, it's fine," she says, sitting up with great composure, pulling the blanket around herself. "You've been travelling. You're tired. It's completely fine."

"It's our anniversary," he says immediately as he reaches for her, he’s way too tired and jetlagged, he can feel his brain lagging. 

"Is it?" she asks innocently, not even looking at him as she throws the blanket aside. "Is it our third wedding anniversary that my husband has already forgotten about? I mean, it serves me right for marrying a musician. You're busy making albums, you're on tour, you're flying around the world. Of course that's all much more exciting than remembering your wife."

She swings her legs over the side of the bed with far more dramatics than necessary, making a show of sighing as she stands. "Baby, I am so sorry, it just completely slipped my mind." "Don't 'baby' me, Min Yoongi."

She turns towards him with the most offended expression she can manage, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "Our anniversary, and here I was going around town looking for the perfect gift for you while you probably don't even have anything for me, do you?"

"Oh?" she narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Well, don't you dare tell me you invested in stocks for me again because I will actually try to kill you."

"It was a diversified portfolio." Yoongi adds matter of factly and ___  stares at him for exactly two seconds before pointing an accusing finger at him. "You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about."

He lets out a tired laugh, rubbing both hands over his face before pushing himself upright, his hair sticking up in every direction, "___, come on," he groans. "I literally moved the entire tour schedule so I could be home this weekend."

He reaches for her again, this time managing to catch the sleeve of her robe before she slips away. "I just forgot for, like, five seconds." Her eyes widen dramatically at that, "Oh," she gasps. "So you do agree that you forgot."

"No, that's not what I..." Yoongi starts, leaning against the bathroom doorframe while she pretends to ignore him, smiling ever so slightly through the mirror as she reaches for her toothbrush.

It takes him another second, "...Holy fucking shit."

"What?" "You were fake mad." "I have no idea what you're talking about." "You were fake mad." He lets out a long breath, pressing a hand against his chest. "I genuinely thought I'd fucked up. I swear to God, for a second I thought you were going to leave me."

She snorts, "It was three minutes." "It felt like a year." He shakes his head dramatically. "The thought of losing you, Jesus Christ, I think I'm having a heart attack." She instinctively takes a step towards him before he ruins it with the smile he can no longer hide.

"Oh my God," she laughs, shoving his shoulder. "You're almost thirty-seven, Yoongi. You can't fake having a heart attack." "Hey, I'm not that old," he mumbles, catching her wrist before she can turn back to the sink. "Besides, I'm in the best shape of my life."

He slips both arms around her waist from behind anyway, pulling her back against him until she relaxes into his chest without thinking twice. His chin finds her shoulder while one hand absentmindedly rubs slow circles against her stomach, the other reaching around her for his toothbrush.

"You really scared me," he admits quietly, his voice softer now, she catches his eyes in the mirror, the teasing disappearing from her face. “I didn’t mean to, you’re usually on top of stuff like this so I just wanted to have some fun” ___ muffles with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“I am, and I do have a gift, and it’s not stock, but I did invest some more” Yoongi adds and ___ rolls her eyes at the last part, He laughs under his breath before the two of them fall into the comfortable silence of finishing brushing their teeth, shoulders bumping every so often in front of the sink that somehow never felt quite big enough for the both of them.

As soon as she sets her toothbrush down, she barely has a second to react before a pair of familiar hands slides beneath her. "Yoongi!" ___ squeals as he effortlessly lifts her off the floor, one arm hooked beneath her knees, the other around her back.

"What happened to thirty-seven?" he asks, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face and she instinctively loops her arms around his neck, laughing as he adjusts her higher against him.

“Honey your shoulder” "Darling it’s fine, I've also been looking forward to doing this for three weeks." The confession slips out so casually that she stops laughing. He'd been counting down the days until he'd be home, until he could wake up beside her instead of in another hotel room, until he could hold her without a screen between them.

She smiles, brushing a hand through the messy hair at the back of his head, "I missed you too." "I know." Yoongi answers confidently as he walks them back to the bed. 

She shakes her head fondly before leaning down the last few inches herself, their lips meeting in an unhurried kiss that tasted faintly of mint and home. He holds her a little tighter, reluctant to put her down now that she is finally back in his arms, and when they eventually pull apart, he rests his forehead against hers for a moment longer.

"Happy anniversary, I love you so so much" he whispers against her lips, ___ smiles, her thumb brushing over his cheek. "Happy anniversary, I love you so so so much too"

“Oh this is also a special concert for me because it’s my children’s first BTS concert” Yoongi shares softly and the crowd erupts into cheers immediately. “They're wearing those tiny protective headphones,” Jimin adds from beside him, unable to hide his grin. “The twins are ridiculously cute.”

“They are,” Yoongi agrees immediately. The other members burst out laughing at how quickly he answers. “I think we're all really grateful that we're still doing this,” he continues, looking out across the crowd. “Obviously it's not as extensive as it was when we were younger. We all have different priorities now. Most of us have spouses, some of us have children, and we've built lives outside of this.”

Several members nod, “But being able to come back here, stand on stage together and still see all of you after all these years...” He pauses, glancing at the members beside him. “It's something I don't think any of us take for granted.” The crowd cheers loudly and he takes a deep breath as his eyes look around for his family, they should be up there in the box.

“As Yoongi hyung said, we’re glad to be back, we hope Army loves our new album and we hope you enjoyed the tour, let’s start with the last song!” Namjoon yells the last part as the rest of the group spreads out, singing and greeting the fans.

The final bows take longer than expected. By the time BTS finally disappears backstage, the stadium is still buzzing with energy, thousands of fans slowly making their way home.

"Where are ___ and the kids?" Yoongi asks Mr. Shin as they make their way towards the green room, pulling his in-ears free as his eyes instinctively scan the hallway. Before Mr. Shin has the chance to answer, the dressing room door swings open.

Jungkook walks in first with Jihan sitting proudly on his shoulders, tiny protective headphones hanging around his neck while his small fingers remain tangled in Jungkook's curls. Every few seconds he gives another experimental tug, earning nothing more than an exaggerated groan.

"Buddy," Jungkook laughs. "I need at least some of my hair."

Behind them, Jimin walks in with Jihee happily holding onto his pinky finger, the little girl swinging their joined hands between them as she chatted away about something only the two of them seemed to understand.

The moment they spot Yoongi, both twins light up, "Appa!" Jungkook barely has time to crouch before Jihan is scrambling down, Jihee letting go of Jimin's hand just as quickly as they both run towards their father.

Yoongi kneels instinctively, laughing as they collide with him at full speed, the kids are immediately talking about the concert, about the fireworks, their father on stage and Yoongi can’t help but laugh, kissing the tops of both their heads before looking around the room.

"Where's your mother?" “___, Sunhee and Ara have been gossiping for the last ten minutes and keep telling shut up to each other every two minutes, why is it making me nervous” Jimin shares as his eyes dart outside the room.

Almost as if summoned, the sound of laughter carries down the hallway before ___ appears around the corner beside Sunhee and Ara, the three of them still completely engrossed in their conversation.

"I'm telling you," Sunhee says between laughs, "he absolutely knew." "He did not," Ara argues. "He did." "He didn't." ___ shakes her head, "You two are impossible." Only then do they realize they've reached the dressing room. 

"There they are," Taehyung says, throwing his hands into the air. "The gossip club has finally arrived." "We heard that," Sunhee replies as she finally gives Jimin the kiss he’s been looking for, they need to stop fighting before concerts

"I wanted you to." Taehyung replies as he gags to the camera, playing it up for the documentary camera.

Ara laughs, shaking her head as she walks over to Jungkook while ___ makes a beeline for Yoongi and the twins, immediately crouching beside them.

"Did you two behave?" she asks, smoothing Jihan's hair where the headphones had flattened it before straightening Jihee's hoodie. The twins nod at the exact same time, both staring up at their mother with matching wide eyes that almost always meant they were trying to look especially convincing. They might have been four now, talking from sunrise until long after bedtime and insisting they are "big kids," but standing in front of their mother like this, they still looked impossibly small.

"They were perfect," Jimin says proudly, an arm settling comfortably around Sunhee's waist. "Honestly, I think they were better behaved than Jungkook." "I heard that," Jungkook replies, feigning offence.

Before the argument has a chance to grow legs, Namjoon claps his hands together. "Okay, before we find something else to argue about, can we please get dinner?" he asks, already reaching for his jacket. "I am starving."

"You say that after every concert," Jin laughs. "And every concert, I'm right." No one argues with that.

The group slowly begins filtering out of the green room, managers discussing reservations while the members naturally slip back into conversations that had been continuing for years. The documentary crew follows a respectful distance behind, cameras still rolling as they capture the end of another tour.

The second the twins hear the word dinner, they're gone. "Race you!" Jihan yells before taking off down the hallway, Jihee squealing as she immediately chases after him.

"Hey!" ___ calls after them. "No running!" Neither child even pretends to slow down, "They're definitely sugar high," Yoongi says, watching them disappear around the corner. Jungkook raises both hands innocently.

Their eyes stay on the kids till Namjoon is holding each twins hand, “Hey, remember your first BTS concert?” Yoongi asks as his hand comes around her, practically walking out as he hugs his wife, the documentary crew still filming them from a few steps behind.

“2019-” “No ___, the one that I invited you to” he whines and ___ laughs out loud, “My second bts concert, I was tired and had a massive crush on a cute man” She glances up at him, the corners of her mouth lifting. 

“The same man you asked out on a date as an experiment, god ___ you really had a massive crush on me didn’t you?” Yoongi teases and ___ chuckles sarcastically, “Oh I was the one that was down bad? You were the one who texted me asking about a jacket, you didn’t even have any moves”

“Oh I had moves, my move was to invite you to a BTS concert," he repeats with charming overconfidence. "Then I sat back and watched you fall hopelessly in love with me." She laughs so hard she has to lean into him, his arm instinctively tightening around her waist to keep her close. 

"So..." she says, looking up at him. "Mission successful?" "Oh, very much so." He answers without hesitation, "I won." She shakes her head, still smiling.

"You are unbelievably full of yourself." "And yet..." Yoongi cups ___’s face with one hand, brushing his thumb across her cheek before leaning down to kiss her.

It isn't hurried or dramatic.It's the kind of kiss that comes after years of shared mornings, long tours, quiet nights, anniversaries, children, arguments they never remembered, and choosing each other every single day in between.

When they finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against hers with the same smile he'd worn the first time she'd ever looked at him like that. "I'd still invite you to that concert," he murmurs. "I know." 

"I'd still ask about the jacket." She laughs softly. "I know." "And I'd still fall in love with you." For just a second, neither of them says anything.

"Appa," Jihan groans from beside the car, "we are hungry" Jihee nods seriously and ___ bursts into laughter as Yoongi sighs dramatically, finally pulling away.

"See?" he mutters. "No respect." "You've raised honest children." Yoongi smiles, reaching for ___’s hand one last time before opening the car door for her. "I suppose that's another mission accomplished."

The first time Jungkook met Kim Jongin, your tongue was down his throat and your hips were drawing eights on his lap.

Literally.

He remembers it all too clearly because you had introduced your boyfriend approximately five seconds earlier before he pulled you back into his lap like he was trying to prove to the whole world that he had somehow managed to bag a girl like you and wasn't planning on letting anybody forget it. He had spent the whole night with you between his arms as if a sole minute of separation would mean risking losing you to somebody else.

Jungkook still thinks about that day sometimes, with a large emphasis on the sometimes. He thinks about that big, alluring smile on your pretty face when you'd excitedly introduced your boyfriend. He thinks about the sound of your laughter whenever Jongin whispered sweet nothings into your ear, or the way you'd curled closer into his embrace as the night grew darker and quieter like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jungkook still thinks about it all. Sometimes.

Oh how he wishes Jongin really did lose you that day. 

But he didn't. In fact, he kept you on his lap for a solid two devastating years.

Not that Jungkook could blame him. He couldn't. Not when he was one glance away from busting a nut the moment he saw you walk into the room that day in his favorite pink skirt of yours.

But the feeling was short lived, only lasting for a few seconds until his eyes dropped down to the man's hand you were holding in your own. Lucky bastard.

You were Jungkook's best friend. So, in retrospect, the ways he'd shamelessly picture you late at night were no where near normal. In fact, it made the best friend title he had once loved so much sound utterly ridiculous when said out loud. Because Jungkook was, in the humblest way possible, obsessed with you. 

And well, you see, the thing is— Jungkook didn't slowly fall in love with you. Yes, he is in love with you, okay? Life is life and he is long past the point of trying to deny or rationalize the feelings he has for you. You are, in Jungkook's words, an angel fallen from the sky. A temptation disguised as something innocent. 

He thinks he would've went to war for you— okay, maybe that is a stretch. But he would crack a one wish willow for you. Responsibly, of course.

Anyways, Jungkook has been in love with you for three entire years and he remembers the exact day it all happened. He remembers the exact moment his heart rate picked up, the exact second he felt birds shitting inside his stomach. He remembers everything. 

It happened sometime during freshman year on a random Thursday evening after a truly horrific programming midterm (half the reason why he remembers it so vividly is because of how successfully he managed to fail that exam). 

The two of you had ended up sitting on the floor of your tiny dorm room, backs pressed against the sides of your bed, discussing how south your academic careers magically went in the span of ninety minutes.

One minute you were talking normally, making stupid jokes about the fact that neither of you knew where the recursive function was supposed to stop, and next you were crying. Actually crying. All because of the semicolon you forgot to include somewhere between the endless lines of codes you were miserably trying to write and hell handled the rest of it. 

He doesn't really remember if the code ever worked, or whether you failed the class as terribly as he did. What he remembers is the way you kept apologizing for crying, as if being upset and vulnerable around him was just so horrible. Unaware of how he was already so down bad he'd give you his kidney if you ever asked. 

Even though he knows when, he doesn't really know why. Maybe it was the fact that you trusted him enough to let him see parts of yourself you tried so damn hard to hide, or maybe it was the way you folded into his arms when he hugged you properly for the first time ever, as though your body was made to be molded with his and continue living as one. 

But it doesn't really matter, because he's still pathetically in love with you the same way he was three years ago. Maybe now it's even worse. 

How can he not be when you look like that? People would sit up straighter when you walked into a room, look up at the sky and the birds and everything in between just to try not to stare too much.

Jongin, however, stared anyway. And the next thing he knew, you were screaming Jongin's name late at night while Jungkook was fisting his own cock wishing it were him instead. 

And, despite how sick it sounds when said out loud, the most unfortunate thing according to Jungkook was that you were happy. Like, genuinely happy. Because Jungkook knew it would be easier to move past everything if Jongin was an absolute piece of shit and didn't treat you the way you deserved. 

But he did. He made you so happy that even the idea of hating him was logically impossible. Because every time Jungkook tried, and trust me he tried, he'd catch you looking at your boyfriend like he gifted you the stars and suddenly feel like the biggest asshole alive. 

But Jungkook never really claimed to be a decent person. 

So he hated Jongin anyway. Quietly, in between ugly moments that belonged to the two of you and had nothing to do with him. He hated him when you weren't looking, when you were too upset to care, when you were over the moon and way too happy to notice the pettiness in his eyes.q He hated Jongin without letting you know. He wasn't that terrible of a friend, after all. 

The point is, Jungkook watched your relationship take root and bloom into flowers from behind the fence of a beautiful garden and behaved admirably well about it.

He silently counted the remaining petals of your seemingly undying love as months dragged themselves into years. The fragile little bud slowly flourished into a ravishing dahlia and Jungkook watched it bloom. He watched two years pass in a devastating haze as you loved your boyfriend loudly with the kind of devotion that made everybody else in the room gag and roll their eyes in envy.

Now the dahlia is dead.

Jungkook had thought about this before. He'd fantasized about your break up and everything that would come along with it. He thought that when the flower finally faded, all that's left of it would be wilted petals scattered across your apartment floor and your tear strained face laying on his shoulder while you tried to explain through sobs and hiccups exactly how bad said Kim Jongin broke your heart.

Except, when the day finally comes, that's not what happens. 

Right now you look…fine?

"You know what his problem is?" You say, irritation written all over your features.

Jungkook, who has spent the last two years hearing the everlasting matters of an impressively detailed list of Kim Jongin's problems, takes a sip from his beer. "Several things come to mind." 

You squint your eyes at him, hands dropping at both your sides. "Be serious for a second." 

"I am! I'm being dead serious." He says, throwing both hands in air, but the grin on his face keeps on growing. 

You don't know why he has been grinning stupidly for the past hour, mostly because you can't really see yourself the way he does. But Jungkook can, obviously. And he can not help that smile from growing as his gaze drifts over you for what must be the hundredth time today, taking in the sight of his favorite hoodie and your bare legs and the fact that you're finally single.

Well, sort of. Kind of. Maybe. 

"Okay." You continue. "Tell me if i'm being ridiculous." 

"You know i will." 

"Good." You say, fixing your posture as Jungkook braces himself for what's to come. 

"He asked for a break." 

Jungkook blinks. "Okay."

"And then he spends the next four days acting like we're still together. He texts me good morning, sends me TikToks when i'm supposed to be sleeping," You pause, inhaling a short breath. "He went feral yesterday because Mingyu commented under my post."

Oh. Oh.

"And then he proceeds to tell me maybe some distance would be healthy." 

Jungkook's eyebrows pull together. "Distance from what?"

"That's what i'm asking!" You exclaim, walking over to the couch, plopping your body next to his. "He's driving me insane." 

"That's because he is insane." 

You roll your eyes. "God, you hate him." 

"That's a reach." You send a look in his way at the words, then he sighs. "Okay, maybe i like him a teeny tiny bit less than the average person." 

You groan, dropping your head against the couch cushion. "Knew it." 

And besides you, that stupid smile has already made its way back onto Jungkook's lips and it takes a whole lot in you to refrain from throwing the TV remote at his face. 

Your head snaps towards him. "Can you stop looking so happy?" 

He cocks a brow. "Happy? I'm not happy. I've been sitting here listening to you complain for at least an hour" 

"You're enjoying this." 

He lets his head fall onto the backrest. "God, i'm not. It's just that you've been miserable for a week and now you're finally angry." 

"I've been angry all week." You say like it's obvious. 

"No, you were sad." 

Okay, to be fair, you never really thought of it like that. But it seems as though Jungkook has and for some reason, he's kind of correct. 

You've spent the past week trying to find out what Jongin wanted. You tried so hard to understand and fix and make sense of it all so that you wouldn't need to have this conversation with Jungkook right now. Maybe this is the first time you've let yourself be angry instead and it feels significantly better. 

"I think what's bothering me isn't the break." You tuck your legs beneath you, settling further into the couch. "It's that he can't even bother to tell me what's actually going on yet still acts like we're perfectly fine." 

Jungkook's eyes lift from the coffee table he was staring at, then turns towards you. "Can i be honest?" 

You sigh dramatically, already giving him the permission. "When are you not?" 

Jungkook laughs awkwardly, then scratches the back of his neck. Terrible, terrible sign. "I think you're giving him too much power." 

You blink. "Jungkook, he's my boyfriend." 

God, woman. Do you have to say it like that? 

His stomach drops at the word, but doesn't let it show. "I know what he is. What i'm trying to say is, he won't tell you what he actually wants and still you're the one trying to solve it." 

You stare at him silently, and he continues. "Maybe this time, focus on what you want instead of losing your mind over what he wants." 

Silence paints every corner of the room, coating everything from the pillows and the furniture all the way to the fruit on the table in shades of blue. Until you finally break it. 

"What if i don't know?" The way the question leaves your mouth is so small and quiet Jungkook thinks he wants to chew your cheeks until they're pink and puffy. 

"Then figure it out." He says instead, then shrugs. 

"Wow, your capacity is two logical sentences before you go back to being an unhelpful asshole." 

A smile tugs at his lips. "I try my best." He says, then winks as the can of Stella sways carelessly in his hand. 

You groan before grabbing a pillow and screaming into it, causing Jungkook to snort and the beer to bubble at the corners of his mouth.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, chuckling before speaking. "You really want me to help?"

You nod, swift and immediate, big eyes looking up his face innocently as Jungkook tries so hard not to milk his cock at the way you're currently batting your eyelashes at him.

He sighs, allowing his body to get more comfortable on the soft cushion of your sofa. "I think you should…unwind a little."

Your mouth parts in disbelief. "Of course you would think that!" You exclaim, surprising Jungkook a little by how sudden and loud your voice comes out. "Your sole purpose in life is to fuck every living organism with a pussy and i'm sitting here expecting you to give me solid advice. But it's my fault, i should've known." 

Jungkook's eyes widen slightly. "Woah. First of all, ouch, princess. I didn't know you thought of me like that." 

Guilt arrives the moment his voice reaches your ears, the sarcastic comment that was once ready to be fired back getting caught somewhere in the middle of your throat before dying out completely. 

You didn't mean it like that, that's for sure. But you didn't expect Jungkook to take it the way he did, either. He's still smiling, still looking at you like you're the light of his universe, but there is something behind his eyes that makes your stomach churn and chest sting in a way that almost makes you nauseous. 

"Sorry, you know i didn't mean that." You recollect yourself quickly, finding your courage back in the smile he gifts you. "What i'm trying to say is, it's been a week since we broke things off. A week, Jungkook. I'm not even sure if we've really broken up or not."

"What i think," Jungkook settles his beer on the coffee table, then shifts closer to you. "is that this is an excellent opportunity to explore your options." He says, tone dropping down by an octave. 

You scoff. "I'm not throwing myself onto a stranger's lap just to relax a little." 

"Nobody said anything about a stranger."

Excuse you?

You choke on fucking air, trying to breathe through a constellation of short breaths and coughs. "Sorry, i don't think i'm following." You manage to say once your breath is evened out. 

"You know exactly what i mean, princess." Now he's staring straight into your eyes and you're not sure if the way your heart is handling the situation is actually healthy. His voice is quieter, deeper in a way that's the exact opposite to how one should be talking to their best friend. 

"You want to…help me unwind?" You ask carefully. Damn that word. What the fuck does it even mean to unwind? 

Jungkook places a hand on your thigh, pulling you closer. "Think of it as a…favor. You remember that one time you saved my hamster's life last semester?" 

"No," You shake your head, completely and utterly lost in a daze. "No, not really." Yeah. He doesn't either. 

He nods slowly, the corners of his mouth curling. "Yeah, you did. So let me return the favor. Please." 

You think you're going to throw up. You think you're going to throw up so hard the both of you will be drowned inside the disgusting green liquid and won't ever see the light of day again.

What do you mean Jungkook is asking, begging for you to let him fuck you so that you'll be exploring your options and letting yourself unwind? What do you fucking mean Jeon motherfucking Jungkook, your dear, beloved best friend, is offering himself up just for you to relax a little and take your mind off of your ex-but-not-really-ex-boyfriend?

Okay, in all honesty, you'd be lying to say you've never thought about it. Never seriously, really, but you have. Because, you see; sky is blue, gravity is times ten, and Jeon Jungkook is attractive. Half the female population has reached that conclusion within the first thirty seconds of meeting him and it doesn't take you to make that into a fact. 

There had always ben teeny, tiny moments where you'd find yourself thinking about him for a fleeting second longer than you should have. Moments where he'd smile, moments where his biceps would flex a little too deliciously while doing basic human activities essential for survival, moments where somebody would ask if you were together and your stomach would twist for just a fraction of a second before pretending it never happened.

Those moments were very much real and already carved into the history books of you and Jungkook's years long friendship. But you had never thought of it like that, you never let yourself to think about it like that. You were in a fully committed, fully devoted relationship for two whole years, for god's sake. 

And you don't even know if you're still in it or not. 

Maybe you're reaching and he only wants to do something oh so nice for his best friend. Maybe he's pitying you, maybe he doesn't even find you attractive and the only reason he's doing this is because he's fed up with your sulkings and wants to have a peaceful night for once. 

Point is, said Jeon Jungkook is still sitting next to you. He's still looking right into your eyes with his big brown ones. The warmth of his hand is still occupying your thigh and maybe— Maybe, the idea of fucking Jeon Jungkook isn't so bad after all. 

You collect every ounce of dignity that's left in you and find your voice. "Do you hear yourself, Jungkook?" You ask, voice quieter than you planned it out to be. 

"Crystal fucking clear, princess." 

You feel his breath on yours when he says that, and it burns. It burns your lips and your stomach and before you know it, you feel it all the way down between your legs. 

"Will you let me?" He says into your ear, and even though the words are barely above a whisper, the weight of them feels so heavy you feel yourself crushing underneath it. Your bare legs are draped over his thick thighs now, the closure of your bodies making it impossibly harder to refrain from getting rid of distance in its entirety. 

You've completely abandoned every form of coherent thinking as you finally find the fortitude to nod. And before you can do anything reasonable fix it, you feel Jungkook's lips on yours.

He kisses you hungrily, as if he wants you to wither and decay until you exist for him and him only. His hands wrap around your waist while you pull him in deeper by his neck, his fingertips kissing the silver of skin exposed by the thin fabric of your tank top. 

Your head feels dizzy as his hands roam all over your body, feeling and carving every inch of your skin into his mind so that he can draw the outline of body and get it inked onto his heart. He pours every ounce of his heart and soul and coats your lips with it, leaving pieces of his love and marking them onto your bare skin. 

Jungkook lays you down on the couch, the action feeling way too gentle with his arms wrapped around you, body hovering over yours as his warm tongue swipes against your bottom lip. You're the one to pull away first, because it seems as though Jungkook has the stamina of a fucking dolphin and doesn't need oxygen to survive like the average human. 

He stares into your eyes like the entirety of his world is living inside them. You watch the rise and fall of his chest before pulling him in once again, fingers grazing the back of his neck. 

When his teeth tugs at your bottom lip, deepening the kiss, your legs part instinctively to accommodate his body. Jungkook starts grinding his hips over your clothed core, and your legs open even wider, then wrap around his waist. 

His cock presses deliciously into your core, already so hard and so ready, desperate for any type of friction. And God, is he desperate. This man has spent years dreaming about your warmth and he is going to make every second count. 

"Jungkook," You moan into his mouth, and Jungkook swallows it right back. He slides his tongue into your mouth at the opportunity, searching you deeper and deeper. 

"Gonna take such good care of you." He says after pulling away, placing wet kisses onto your jaw, then your collarbone. He stops when he reaches your chest, hands toying with the hem of your tank top. The only thing you can do is squirm under him. 

You give him a consensual nod when he eyes you from below, silently letting him know you want it off of you just as much as he does. Jungkook pulls the thin fabric over your shoulders, then physically falters at the sight of your boobs. And they're not even bare. 

He's going to fucking die.

He wants to bury his face in your chest and suffocate between your tits. He wants his lungs to be completely rid of oxygen until he can register nothing but the feeling of your soft boobs against his skin. 

He presses a few kisses on the soft swell of your boobs, fingertips tracing lines over the white lace before unhooking your bra. You arch in aid for him, lifting yourself up slightly so that he can reach a little easier. Jungkook lets the lace fabric fall onto the ground near the couch, then gasps audibly at the mere sight of your naked tits. 

"Fucking hell." He says, and you can't help but let your chest swell with pride when he reacts oh so desperately, worries you once had of him not finding you attractive disappearing into void.

If Jungkook ever heard that you were self conscious in the slightest bit, he would fuck you so impossibly hard until you understood how weak of a man he was for you— not that he won't regardless. 

He takes a nipple into his mouth and toys with the other, flicking the hardened nub between his fingers. The sounds you let out are obscene, pornographic even. You're a mess from so much as him sucking on your tits and Jungkook can only imagine how unreal you're going to sound when he finally fucks you. 

He crawls further to the opposite end of the couch, hands fiddling with the zipper of your tiny denim shorts that are a terrible excuse of clothing. Because they cover absolutely nothing and Jungkook has been hard since the moment you opened the door for him earlier. 

He pulls down your shorts along with your panties, patience running way too thin to tease you over the delicate lace fabric. There is nothing delicate about this. Jungkook has been starving for years and he is going to make sure you know it. 

He spreads your legs, placing both hands on your inner thighs to open you up for him. He feels his breath physically hitch at the sight of your bare pussy right in front of his eyes. Wet, aching and already leaking with arousal. Straight out of his dreams. Literally. 

Jungkook hooks your legs over his shoulders, then pulls you closer towards his face. You whimper when he first feels you up with his fingers, dragging his fingertip up and down your slit before opening up your folds, spreading them wide with two fingers. 

"Such a perfect fucking pussy. And you've been hiding it from me for years, baby. Letting boys who can't even satisfy you touch you while i'm right here." 

He slowly slides a finger inside you, eyes focused on your face as he watches over the way your face evolves through the depths of pleasure.

"Fuck, Koo. More, please." You moan, grinding your hips in air, eager for his touch. 

"Yeah? Want more, baby?" He asks, sliding another finger into your pussy, pace devastatingly slow. "Holy shit, you're so fucking wet." 

You nod rapidly from above, tears building at the corners of your eyes, pussy aching and begging for his mouth. "Y-yes, yes Koo. So wet for you. Please." 

Jungkook complies without another word. He pulls out his fingers before diving into your cunt. He sucks on your clit first, and you cry out in pleasure the second his hot, wet mouth contacts your bare core. 

Jungkook moans into your pussy when your hands fly to his hair, fisting his soft locks and pulling him impossibly closer. He slides his tongue down to your aching hole, then places his nose on your clit, having absolutely no desire to leave it untouched. 

As he fucks into your hole with his tongue, his nose presses against your clit, and you swear it makes you see white light for a second. Your back arches involuntarily and you keep on tugging at his hair as he forces you to your high, nose continuing to draw circles on your clit as he fucks your cunt with his tongue.

"Shit, Jungkook, 'm so close." Jungkook's tongue strokes through your folds faster as your cries grow louder and louder. Your thighs shake embarrassingly and your back arches even further when you finally reach your high, and Jungkook grounds you with a hand on your hip through it all, still rubbing your clit in circles.

Once you've fully ridden out your orgasm, he licks you clean, slurping the entirety of your juices. "Tastes fucking incredible." 

He comes up to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You tug at the hem of his shirt as he sucks on your bottom lip, then pulls it over his head to grant you your wish. 

It takes everything in you and more to not gasp at the sight of his naked body when he pulls down his sweats after. Because suddenly, Jungkook looks like you want to give him three babies and a house. 

You have seen him shirtless countless times before. You've went to pool parties and summer vacations and places that require the least amount of clothes. But never has it affected you like this. 

You knew Jungkook was attractive. You knew he had a solid physique and a face that would probably be worth millions if he was smart enough to abandon the misery of engineering and pursued modeling instead.

But it had never once felt like you need to drop to your knees and take every inch of his cock into your mouth until he's bleeding and crying and can not produce sperm anymore. 

"Like what you see, baby? Want me to fuck you stupid?" He says, stroking himself over the fabric of his boxers as he watches you squirm beneath him. 

You nod frantically. "Please, Jungkook." You beg for the nth time in the span of twenty minutes, not even thinking anymore, voice standing somewhere between a cry and a whine. 

He drags down his boxers, and your mouth parts at the sight of his bare cock. Because what the actual fuck? Your best friend has been packing, walking around with that all this time and you didn't have a single clue?

Your mouth opens before you can help yourself. "I don't think that's gonna—" 

He cuts you off. "It will, baby. If you stop talking and take it like the good girl you are, we'll make it fit."

You shut your mouth immediately after that, laying on the sofa silently as he pumps his length while staring down at you. Legs spread, body spent, everything so hot and messy. 

He positions himself at your entrance, dragging his cock over your folds, spreading your slick all over your swollen pussy. He enters you in a pace so dreadfully slow, making sure you feel every inch of his length between your wet walls. And god, it's so fucking wet. Arousal is dripping down your pussy all the way to your ass, slick staining the beige fabric of the couch cushions. You almost feel embarrassed at how wet you are, because you're soaking to the point where he'll slide right in without even trying yet he's doing the complete opposite. 

You want him to slam into you. You want him to fuck you so hard you cry on his cock. You want Jeon Jungkook to fucking break you because if you think about whatever today will mean for you in the future, for even a split second, you'll cry like a fucking baby. 

Because you don't know what to do with any of this. The things he's saying, the way he's looking at you, the way he's holding you…It all feels way too intimate for a guy like him. 

You don't know for sure if it's the high speaking but if not, it seems as though your best friend has built entire dreams around you that you never knew existed. 

"Do you know how many times i've thought about this? Fantasized about this pretty pussy while you played house with your pathetic little boyfriend?" Yeah, that confirms your worries. 

Once he's fully inside you, you feel deliciously stretched, walls clenching around his length. Your back arches off the bed involuntarily and you cry out in pleasure before he even properly thrusts into you.

You don't think you've ever taken a cock this big. Honestly, you don't think anyone else has a cock this big. Certainly, if you did, you'd never shut up about it. 

He tilts his head to look at where you’re connected, watching the way his cock is moving in and out of your cunt. “So tight, princess. This pussy was made for me, wasn’t it? Sucking me right in.”

All you can do is close your eyes and whimper at the feeling when he starts speaking again. “Answer me, baby. Use your big girl words.”

Your pussy clenches around his cock. “Yes, yes Jungkook. It’s all for you, only you.”

Jungkook groans at your words, then finds his pace after you adjust yourself to the stretch, fucking you fast and hard without wasting any more time. But the funny thing is, he looks into your eyes with so much love through it all, as if he isn't fucking you brutally, splitting you open on his massive cock. 

“Feels so good, Koo. Need you to fuck me always.”

He lets out a trenchant moan of your name. "I'm right here." He says, so lost in the moment you'd think he was about to cry if he wasn't pounding into you at a pace so inhumane. "I've always been right here." 

You decide to completely disregard his words, grabbing him by the neck and crashing your lips onto his. You need him to stop talking. You need him to shut up and fuck you like it means nothing. 

Your head is a mess, your heart isn't beating properly, a million different thoughts pass through your mind, and the way Jungkook is kissing you doesn't help at all. This isn't helping you unwind. Not even close. This is fucking with your head even further and you have no idea the kind of morning you will wake up to tomorrow. 

When you cum, it happens big and loud. You cry out his name, legs shaking and back arching off the couch. Jungkook fucks you through it, chasing his own high as you try holding yourself together through the overstimulation, because he fucks you until it hurts. 

"Where do you want me?" He asks, voice low and breathy. 

You sabotage yourself one last time— hopefully. "Inside, please. Fill me up, Jungkook." 

That seems to be the last straw. Jungkook groans loudly, then spills his seeds into you, making you feel so full. His head falls back as he thrusts into you a few more times. And before you can open your eyes, he collides onto you and the warmth of his body spreads until it concurs yours. 

Afterwards, the sound of your shared breaths and pants are the only indicators of life. His chest stays pressed against yours, breath hot in your ear, sweat trilling down both your bodies and mixing into each other. 

The silence feels painful, because you have never experienced it with Jungkook before. There had never once been a moment where you didn't know what to say or what to do when it came to him. Turns out, there is a first for everything. Because each word, each sentence you construct in different parts of your brain dies down before you can even think about feeling them on your tongue. 

Your breathing gradually settles, but your heartbeat doesn't. You stare at the ceiling over his shoulder, because there is absolutely no way you can look into his eyes right now. 

You clear your throat first. "Well…"

Jungkook lets out something between a breath and a laugh. "Yeah." 

"I think," You begin carefully. "That definitely counts as unwinding.",

His lips twitch despite himself, then lifts his body slowly off yours. "I deserve a thank you gift, then." 

You scoff. "I'm not gonna suck your dick, Jungkook." 

He laughs loudly, reaching for his boxers. "You said it, not me." 

A smile lingers on your lips, because for a moment, everything feels normal. The sound of his laugh, the look on his face, the words on his tongue…For a moment, you feel like none of it really happened. Until you look down at your naked body and realize you're desperately in need of covering up. 

Jungkook hands you his shirt as if he just read your mind, and you give him a tight lipped smile before sliding it on. "We're…" You start, but your voice trails off.

Jungkook's eyes soften. "We're okay." 

But are you really? Because in all honesty, you don't really know what okay feels like anymore. Just five hours ago, Jungkook was your best friend. Now, he's still your best friend. Except you've crossed a line that's now completely blurred. Somewhere between his touch and your heartbeat and all the things he whispered pretending they don't matter, everything started to feel too heavy you're not sure you can continue carrying it all without letting it mean something.

And the problem is so much bigger than Jungkook. You know you love that man. You love him so much your chest aches. Maybe not in the way he so desperately wishes you do, but there is no doubt you'd get there in no time if you gave it a try. So if tonight costs you your best friend, you'll never forgive yourself.

The bigger problem is that, there is still a part of you that belongs to the two years you spent loving Jongin. It's impossible to erase two whole years just because one conversation went wrong and the following days were managed terribly.

"I don't regret it, i want you to know that."

He exhales slowly. "I know."

"I just…" You search for the right words, but it feels as though they don't exist. "Everything's a mess, i don't know where to go from here." You close your eyes for a brief second, trying to recollect your heartbeat.

"It's only been a few days, and we're not even…officially…" Your voice trails off, because you can not bring yourself to finish the sentence. Because if you say the words out loud, it will feel even more real than it already does.

Jungkook stares at the floor, eyes still stuck there as he starts speaking. "You don't owe me anything."

Your head snaps towards him. "What?"

"This didn't happen because i pity you or something. I don't want you to think that. I know exactly why it happened and however you want to go about this is fine with me."

Your brows pull together. "Why then?"

Jungkook smiles gently, sitting down next to you. "Are you sure you want to hear it right now?" He says, catching your eyes in his.

You nibble at your bottom lip, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes at the silent confirmation he gives you. No, you don't want to hear it right now. What you feel is already way too much and hearing him say it out loud will break you thoroughly if it didn't already.

"I don't want to lose you." You manage to mutter out, voice quiet, the words breaking around the edges.

He offers you another smile, pulling you into his chest. "You won't."

You want to believe him. You want to believe him so fucking bad but it feels like you've already lost parts of him you can never reach again.

And Jungkook knows that. He swears he's in full knowledge of every thought flashing across your mind right now and he can do nothing about it besides comforting you that everything will be okay.

He could tell you. He could finally say the three words that have spent three years trapped inside the dearest corners of his heart. He could tell you that this impulsive mistake wasn't born from a few bottles of beer and a broken heart. He could tell you he'd loved you long before tonight.

But instead, he swallows every word and tucks them right back into where he has kept them locked all this time. He loves you too much to become another lump in your throat, another weight for you to carry. If pretending this means less to him than it does will let oxygen pass easier through your lungs, then he'll pretend.

He has loved you long enough to know he shouldn't be selfish tonight.

And he will continue loving you. Quietly, like he has done all this time. And whenever you let him, if you ever do, he will love you so loudly you'll never be in this position again.

He will lock this memory somewhere safe and offer you the keys whenever you're ready. Until then, he will keep replaying parts of it late at night wishing every form of sorry known to mankind on his heart.

"Good evening," his voice was lower than expected, cutting through the silence without him even trying. He dropped his gym bag by the sound system and turned to face the mirrors, scanning the crowd. His eyes lingered on you for a fraction of a second longer than the others, taking in your flushed face, your parted lips, and the slight tremor of your posture. "We have a lot of ground to cover, and I don't like wasting time. Let's warm up."

The music hit the speakers, a heavy, syncopated R&B beat with a bassline that vibrated straight through the floorboards, settling deep in your lower abdomen.

"Isolation," Hoseok commanded, moving to the front of the room.

Watching him move up close was entirely different from seeing him on a screen. Every pop of his chest, every roll of his shoulders was precise. He didn't just dance, he controlled the rhythm. Standing there, you felt the crushing weight of his presence, an ocean of experience and maturity.

"Five, six, seven, drop," he called out.

You tried to focus on your own reflection, but your eyes kept drifting to his reflection in the mirror. He caught you looking. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he rolled his hips through a transition, his movements fluid and heavy. He caught your gaze and held it, his eyes darkening as he intentionally deepened his stance.

"Keep up, back row," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours through the glass, his voice a low purr that made a sudden spike of heat bloom between your thighs. "The real work hasn't even started yet."

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, and it had absolutely nothing to do with the cardio.

The clock on the studio wall read 10:14 PM. The class had ended nearly twenty minutes ago, and the last few dancers had gathered their gym bags, said their goodbyes, and slipped out into the cool night air.

You hadn’t left.

You stood in the centre of the floor, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs. The stereo was low, looping the heavy, bass-driven track Hoseok had introduced during the session. You tried the transition again: step, pivot, drop the weight into the hips, and snap the chest forward.

It felt clunky. Unsatisfactory.

"Your weight is too far back on the heel," a smooth, dark voice cut through the empty studio.

You jumped, your eyes flying to the doorway mirror. Hoseok was leaning against the doorframe, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, a half empty water bottle dangling from his fingers. He had changed out of his damp tank top into a loose, black button down shirt, left entirely unbuttoned over a white tank that clung to the sweat on his chest.

"Mr. Jung," you breathed, suddenly very aware of how loud your breathing sounded in the room. "I didn't realize you were still here."

"I could ask you the same thing." He pushed away from the frame, dropping his bag with a heavy thud onto the floor. He walked toward you, his sneakers making no sound against the polished hardwood. He didn't stop until he was standing barely a foot away. The scent of clean cedar-wood and grapefruit washed over you, his cologne becoming slightly overwhelming. "The routine isn’t sticking?"

"The transition in the second eight count," you admitted, looking down at his sneakers to avoid the intense, searching look in his eyes. "I feel like I'm losing the rhythm when the beat drops."

Hoseok chuckled, a low vibration that rattled something deep in your chest. "You're overthinking it. Don't count the beat. Feel where it wants to pull you."

Before you could process his words, he stepped up directly behind you.

The heat radiating from his chest pressed against your back, though he wasn't quite touching you yet. The proximity made your breath hitch. Standing so close, he carried himself with the unshakeable confidence of a grown man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to take it.

"Look in the mirror," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, right next to your ear.

You raised your eyes, meeting his gaze in the reflection. He reached out, his large, warm hands settling firmly onto your hips. His touch was heavy and completely deliberate. The contrast of his fingers against the bare skin of your waist where your shirt had ridden up made a shiver run straight down your spine.

"Relax your shoulders," he commanded softly, squeezing your hips gently to anchor you. "Now, when the bass hits, drop."

He guided your body down with his hands, forcing your hips to sink lower. His chest pressed fully against your back now, the firm line of his torso molding against your ass. You could feel the steady thumping of his heartbeat, and lower down, the distinct ridge of his length pressing firmly against your backside through his cargo pants.

"There," Hoseok whispered, his breath hot against the column of your neck. "Feel that? Now, roll the tension up through your spine. Slow. Give it to the music."

He moved with you, his hips tracing the same fluid, grinding his front against your back in a torturous friction. The reflection in the mirror was dizzying, the two of you moving in an intoxicating synchronization.

He didn't let go. His hands slid slowly from your hips up your ribcage, before settling on your shoulders, pressing you back hard against him.

"You have the skill," Hoseok murmured, his eyes locking onto yours in the mirror, burning with an intensity that made your knees weak. "But you're holding back. Is it because I'm your instructor?”

"I," You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. "I'm just trying to get it right."

A slow, handsome smirk spread across his lips. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your earlobe.

"Next time, don't think about getting it right," he whispered, his hands sliding back down to grip your waist with a sudden, firm pressure that made you gasp. "Just let me control the movement."

He let go abruptly, stepping back and breaking the contact so suddenly you felt a cold shock hit your skin. He walked over to his bag, picking it up and slinging it over his shoulder as if he hadn't just completely shifted your world.

"Practice is over for tonight," Hoseok said, his professional tone returning, though his eyes still held a lingering spark of dark, ravenous heat. "Go home. Get some rest. I expect to see this exact energy in class tomorrow."

He turned and walked out of the studio, leaving you standing alone under the lights, your heart racing, and your skin still burning where his hands had been.

The afternoon sun blazed through the high windows of Studio 48, casting long shadows across the floor. Today, the room was packed to capacity. The air was charged with a nervous energy, word had gotten out that Hoseok’s temporary placement might lead to a permanent residency at the academy, and everyone wanted to prove they belonged.

You stood near the water cooler, stretching your calves, trying desperately to ignore the phantom sensation of warm, heavy hands on your waist. You hadn't slept well. Every time you closed your eyes, you heard the low hum of his voice instructing you to drop, and your hand slipped down into your own underwear, desperately trying to recreate the friction of his hips against yours.

"Listen up," Hoseok’s voice boomed, cutting through the murmurs. He was leaning against the sound system, a clipboard in hand, dressed in loose grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt that accentuated every muscle in his chest and shoulders. "Today is about chemistry and execution. I’ve watched you all perform individually. Now I need to see how you adapt to a partner.”

A collective murmur went through the class.

Hoseok began rattling off names, pairing people up two by two. With each pair called, your chest grew tighter. He was moving down the line, his eyes tracking the roster, never once looking up at you.

"Min-jae and Sarah. Ji-woo and Hana." Hoseok tapped his pen against the clipboard, then finally raised his eyes. They scanned the remaining dancers, stopping dead on you. A dangerous, unreadable glint flickered in his gaze. "And for the final demonstration, I’ll be stepping in myself."

He tossed the clipboard onto the stereo equipment.

"You," he said, pointing a finger directly at you. "Centre floor."

The room went completely silent. Thirty pairs of eyes locked onto you as you walked out. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. You stopped a few feet away from him, your hands sweating.

"The piece is a high contact contemporary lyrical," Hoseok addressed the room, though his eyes never left your face. "It requires absolute trust. If you hesitate, you fall. If you hold back, the audience feels it."

He stepped closer, closing the distance until you could smell the sharp mint on his breath. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck, firm, and entirely authoritative.

"The cue starts on the first downbeat," he whispered, his eyes dropping briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. "Follow my lead. Don't fight me."

The music swelled a heavy electronic track filled with a deep, pulsing heartbeat bass.

On the first beat, Hoseok pulled you in violently. Your chest collided with his, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Before you could recover, his hand slid from your neck down to the small of your back, arching your body over his arm in a steep, breathless dip. The grip of his hand through your shirt was tight, holding you suspended above the floor with effortless strength.

The class faded away. There was only the sound of the thump of the bass, and the consuming heat of his body.

He pulled you back up, the momentum bringing you so close your noses brushed. He spun you out, his fingertips dragging slowly across your palm until the connection broke, only to catch you by the waist a second later from behind. He pulled your back against his chest, his arms locking around your ribcage, anchoring you to him.

"Good," he breathed against your ear, his voice a low vibration that only you could hear over the music. "You're not counting. You're feeling it."

The music took a sharp, aggressive turn. Hoseok turned you to face him, his hands sliding up to frame your jaw. His thumbs pressed into the hollows beneath your ears, forcing you to look directly into his eyes, eyes that were intense, and completely devoid of professional detachment. The commanding gravity of his presence was an intoxicating weight.

For a terrifying, exhilarating second, you thought he was going to kiss you right there in front of everyone. The heat between your bodies was a physical wall, thick and suffocating.

The music stopped on a sharp, abrupt chord.

Hoseok stayed frozen for a beat, his hands still cradling your face, his chest heaving against yours. The entire room was dead silent, the tension in the air so thick it felt volatile.

Then, slowly, his hands dropped. He took a step back, his expression smoothing out into a mask of cool, professional critique, though his breathing was just as ragged as yours, and his sweatpants showed a prominent bulge that he didn't even bother to hide.

"That," Hoseok said, turning to look at the stunned class, "is what absolute commitment looks like. Pair up. I want to see that level of tension from every single one of you."

He walked back to the sound system without another word, but as he turned the music back on, his eyes caught yours in the mirror. The smirk was gone, replaced by a raw, possessive hunger that told you everything you needed to know.

The line had been crossed, and there was no going back.

The storm hit Seoul without warning in the evening.

By ten, the sky was a sheet of flashing white, and thunder rattled the heavy glass windows of Studio 48. The building's main power had flickered out ten minutes ago, leaving the studio illuminated only by the dull, amber glow of the emergency backup lights positioned in the corners of the room.

You sat on the floor, your back pressed against the mirrors, your knees pulled to your chest. The rain was drumming a manic rhythm against the glass. The subways were flooded, taxis were nonexistent, and you were stuck.

You weren't alone though.

Across the room, Hoseok sat on a chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He had pulled off his damp shirt, leaving him in just a white tank top that clung to the sweat on his chest. He was staring at the floor, twirling a roll of athletic tape between his fingers.

"You should have left when the first warnings came out," he said, his voice cutting through the steady roar of the rain. It sounded different now, quieter, stripped of the authority he used during class.

"I wanted to finish the choreography notes," you said softly.

Hoseok let out a quiet laugh. He tossed the tape aside and stood up. He walked across the darkened studio, his shoes moving against the wood. He stopped a few feet away from you, looking down into the shadows where you sat.

"You're a terrible liar," he murmured.

He sat down on the floor right next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The heat radiating off him was the only warm thing in the storm cooled room. He leaned his head back against the mirror, staring up at the dark ceiling.

"You stay late because of me," he stated. It wasn't a question. It was a fact.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Your body went rigid, your heart stopping for a terrifying beat before hammering violently. You stared at his profile, your mouth opening slightly but no sound coming out. You had spent weeks hiding every glance, every tremor, convincing yourself you were invisible.

“I—what?” you stammered, your voice cracking as a wave of hot panic rushed to your face. “No, I don’t. I’m just behind on the transitions—”

Hoseok turned his head to look at you. In the amber light, the sharp angles of his jaw and the slope of his nose looked like a sculpture. His eyes were deep pools of shadow.

"You really think you're that good at hiding it?" he murmured, a faint trace of a smirk pulling at his lips. "You're too talented to be struggling with a simple transition, and we both know it. Every time I step close, your breath catches. When I explain the routine, you don't look at the choreography, you look at me."

Your breath hitched. You wanted to look away, to hide the burning blush you knew was creeping up your neck, but his gaze held you pinned.

"It’s unprofessional," you muttered, trying to find some sort of ground to stand on.

"It is," Hoseok agreed easily. He reached out, his long fingers wrapping gently around your chin, tilting your face up toward his. His thumb pressed over your bottom lip, an agonizingly soft pressure. "Extremely unprofessional. I could lose my residency before it even starts."

"Then why are you sitting this close to me?"

Hoseok’s eyes darkened. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the room, throwing his features into sharp relief. In that split second, the restraint he usually carried cracked entirely.

"Because I'm tired of fighting it," he growled softly.

He leaned in, closing the distance between you. His lips didn't crash into yours; instead, he hovered barely a millimeter away, his warm breath mingling with yours, torturing you with the proximity.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against your lips. "Tell me to walk away, and I’ll do it. But you have to say it right now."

You couldn't speak. Your fingers reached out, tangling into the soft fabric of his tank top, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

That was all the permission he needed.

Hoseok groaned, his mouth capturing yours in a deep, bruising kiss that tasted like unchecked hunger. His tongue slipped into your mouth, tracing your mouth until you whimpered against his lips. His hands moved to your waist, lifting you easily from your seated position and pulling you directly onto his lap. 

His hands were everywhere, sliding under the hem of your shirt, pulling at the sports bra until your bare breasts were pressed against the thin fabric of his tank top. He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down your jawline to your throat, biting gently at the soft skin there, leaving dark ownership marks.

"Hoseok," you gasped, your hips instinctively rolling against his lap, feeling the rigid length of his erection through his sweatpants.

"You're so hot," he panted, his hands sliding down to wrap around your thighs, spreading them wide so you were straddling him completely. His large palms rubbed circles into your outer thighs, his thumbs digging into the sensitive flesh near your groin. "I've been going crazy watching you move. Every roll of your hips... I wanted it on my lap. Like this."

He reached down between your bodies, his hand slipping inside the waistband of your shorts. He didn't hesitate; his fingers slid past your underwear, finding you completely soaked, dripping with slick heat.

A loud gasp escaped your lips, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder as his long fingers buried themselves in your wetness.

"Look at how wet you are for your teacher," Hoseok whispered against your ear, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing it with a firm, rhythmic friction. "You're a good student. So responsive."

He slid two fingers inside you, your core clenching around them immediately. Hoseok groaned, his pace accelerating, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his thumb worked your clit. Your body shook, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as the pleasure built into a terrifying wave.

"Hoseok, please, I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a dark, rough growl. "Let me feel how tight you get."

With a final, hard thrust of his fingers and a heavy press of his thumb, your body fractured. You gasped violently, a loud, uninhibited sob leaving your throat as your core clamped around his hand in a powerful, draining orgasm. Hoseok held you, his own breathing ragged and desperate as he felt your slick walls twitching around his fingers.

He didn't pull his hand out immediately. He left his fingers inside your pulsing heat, his thumb gently caressing your sensitive bundle of nerves as you came down from the peak.

"This is just the warm up," he whispered into the darkness, his voice thick with a promise that made your remaining strength melt away. "Tomorrow, you're coming to my private studio. And I’m going to show you what happens when we really start to dance."

The address Hoseok had texted you wasn't the main academy building. It was a private, exclusive complex nestled in the upscale district of Hannam dong.

When you pressed the buzzer for the penthouse studio, the heavy iron gates clicked open immediately. You took the private elevator straight to the top floor, your hands trembling inside the pockets of your oversized jacket.

The elevator doors opened directly into a massive, minimalist loft. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooking the lights of the Han River.

Hoseok was standing in the centre of the room, stretching out his legs. He was dressed entirely in black, with cargo pants that hung low on his hips and a sleeveless shirt that showed every sharp line of his toned arms.

"You're late," he said, not looking away from the mirror. "Five minutes."

"The traffic crossing the bridge was bad," you said, stepping out of the elevator. The doors slid shut behind you with a soft clink, sealing you in.

Hoseok finally looked up. His eyes travelled slowly from your face, down your body, and back up again. The intensity from the storm the night before was carefully tucked away, replaced once again by the calculating director, but there was a dangerous focus to his gaze now.

"Take off the jacket," he commanded, his voice echoing in the empty loft. "We aren't here to hide your posture."

You unzipped your jacket, letting it drop onto a nearby bench. You were wearing a cropped tank top and high-waisted shorts. Under his gaze, you felt completely exposed.

"From now until the end of the month, this is where we work," Hoseok said, walking toward you with a slow, predatory grace. "The academy class is for the public. This space is for us. I’m building a piece for the upcoming showcase, and you are going to be the centre of it."

"A duet?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

"A duet," he confirmed, stopping close enough that you could feel the sudden spike of heat radiating from his skin. "But to get you where you need to be, we have to strip away all your bad habits. You rely too much on visual cues."

He reached out, his hand wrapping around your wrist with a grip that made your pulse jump. He led you over to the centre of the floor, facing away from the mirrors.

"Close your eyes," he whispered.

"Hoseok.."

"Close them," he commanded, his voice dropping into that heavy, authoritative tone. "Trust me."

You let your eyelids close. You heard the rustle of his cargo pants. Then, you felt his hands. They started at your ankles, sliding slowly up the sides of your calves, tracing the muscle up to your thighs before settling on your hips from behind. He pulled your backside flush against his front.

"Don't move," he murmured.

The music started, a seductive electronic track with a deep bass that vibrated through the floorboards. Hoseok began to move you, his body guiding yours through a fluid routine. When he wanted you to turn, his hand slid up to wrap around your throat, his thumb resting against your pulse point, guiding your chin over your shoulder with a dominant, possessive pressure.

You stumbled slightly, losing your balance in the dark. Before you could fall, Hoseok’s arms caught you, locking around your waist and slamming you back against his chest.

"Keep your eyes closed," he growled against your skin, his chest heaving against your back. "I told you. If you lose your balance, I will catch you. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," you gasped, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

He held you there for a long beat. "Good," he whispered, his breath ghosting over your ear. He slowly released his grip, his hands sliding down to your wrists, guiding them down to your sides. "Then let's take it from the top. And don't hesitate this time."

Three weeks into the private sessions, you didn’t know how much longer you could take it.

The loft was suffocatingly hot. The air conditioning was turned off purposefully; Hoseok claimed the heat kept the muscles loose, but you knew the truth, he liked the way sweat made everything slick and difficult to control.

"Again," Hoseok commanded. He was leaning against the mirrored wall, his arms crossed over his bare chest. He had abandoned his shirt an hour ago. His torso was glistening, the muscles of his abdomen defined in the low light.

You stood in the centre of the floor, your legs trembling from exhaustion. You had run the new routine six times back to back.

"I'm tired, Hoseok," you breathed, wiping sweat from your forehead with a white towel.

"The audience doesn't care if you're tired," he said, his voice cold, though his eyes were burning as they tracked the rise and fall of your chest. "The showcase is in a few weeks. If you can't handle the stamina required to stay dancing with me, I'll find another partner."

The threat was empty, you both knew it, but it stung enough to make your jaw tighten. "Play the music," you snapped.

A dangerous smile played on his lips. "No music this time."

He walked out into the centre of the floor, stopping so close you could see the individual droplets of sweat tracing the line of his collarbone.

"We run the second phrase entirely in silence," Hoseok murmured, his voice dropping into that smooth, dark register. "If you miss a single physical cue, if your body doesn't react instantly to where my hands place you...there will be a penalty."

"A penalty?" you whispered, your heart hammering.

"Don't get distracted," he warned, his eyes locking onto yours.

He didn't give you time to prepare. His hand shot out, gripping your right shoulder and pulling you forward into a sharp pivot. Your body reacted on instinct, your hips swinging around to match his stride.

He didn't use music, but Hoseok kept the rhythm with his body. The friction of his pants against your legs, the heavy sound of his breathing, the gentle slaps of his palms against your skin to signal a change in direction, that was your metronome.

He moved behind you, his hands sliding down to your arms to interlock his fingers with yours. He forced your arms up over your head, pinning your wrists together with one hand while his other hand slid down to grab your inner thigh, lifting your leg into a high, sensual extension.

The proximity was agonizing. You could feel the hard line of his thigh pressing against your glutes.

"You're reacting beautifully," Hoseok whispered in your ear, his voice tight with suppressed hunger. "But your alignment is off. Fix your hips."

He released your leg, but before you could adjust, his hand swept around to the front of your body, his palm flattening against your stomach and sliding down to the waistband of your shorts. He pulled you backward, hard, tucking your pelvis against his.

A sharp gasp escaped your lips.

"That's a mistake," Hoseok murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "You let the touch break your focus. What did I say about penalties?"

Before you could answer, he spun you around to face him. His hands grabbed your thighs, and with one powerful, sudden lift, he hoisted you up. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands clutching at his wet shoulders for balance.

He walked over to the mirrored wall, slamming your back gently against the glass. The cool surface against your skin made you shiver, but Hoseok immediately crowded you, his heavy torso pinning you against the reflection.

"You failed the test," he whispered, his lips sliding down your jawline to press a hard, biting kiss into the crook of your neck. "Now you have to pay the price."

The penalty was supposed to be a punishment, but it felt more like a reward.

Hoseok’s mouth left your neck, moving up to capture your lips with a speed that left you entirely breathless. The kiss was wet and frantic, all the built-up tension of the past three weeks exploding into the quiet loft.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter, holding you suspended against the mirror as he walked you away from the glass, carrying you effortlessly toward the large leather sofa in the corner of the studio. He dropped you onto the soft leather, immediately coming down over you, his heavy frame pinning you into the cushions.

"Hoseok," you gasped out between deep, bruising kisses.

He didn't wait. He pinned your hands above your head with one of his, using his free hand to rip your remaining clothes off until you were completely naked beneath him. Hoseok looked down at you, a flare of satisfaction lighting up his features before he stripped out of his own clothes.

Instead of immediately entering you, his gaze darkened as it travelled down your body. He shifted his weight, sliding down between your thighs. He grabbed your knees, pushing them wide apart to expose you completely to his gaze.

"Look at you," he growled. "Dripping for your instructor before I've even touched you here."

Before you could respond, his mouth pressed against your pussy. You let out a sharp cry as his tongue swiped flat and wet over your aching clit. His tongue worked with a demanding rhythm, drinking you in as your hips rolled against his mouth. As he sucked your clit into his lips, he slid two long fingers deep inside your slick, tight heat. The combination of his tongue swirling against your bundle of nerves and his fingers made your back arch completely off the leather. He pumped his fingers inside you hard and fast, making you whimper and sob his name into the empty studio until you were dripping wet.

"You like my fingers stretching you out, don't you?" he muttered against your wet skin, his breath hot. "You're so tight."

"I love it, I love it so much!" you squealed out, your hands finding their way to his dark hair, pulling on the strands so hard you thought you were going to rip them.

He pulled away with a wet smack, looking up at you with blown-out pupils and his lips glistening. He grabbed your thighs, pinning them back against your chest, and with a thrust, he buried his entire length inside your slick core. A loud cry left your lips, echoing off the high ceilings of the loft.

“Fuck! Hoseok–”

"Yeah, scream my name," he panted, locking his jaw as your muscles clamped around him. "Let me feel exactly what you've been hiding from me.”

He began to move, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back inside you. The leather sofa squeaked loudly under the force of his thrusts. He grounded his hips against yours with every stroke, making sure that his weight pinned you completely, forcing out breathless moans from your throat as he established a slow, deep pace.

"Please, Hoseok, faster," you begged, your hands holding his broad shoulders.

"No," he growled, slowing his rhythm, pulling out until just the tip remained before burying himself back inside to the hilt. "You’re going to take it exactly how I give it to you. Tell me how my cock feels inside you."

"It's too much... it's so big," you cried out, your head rolling back.

"Good girl. Take every inch of it," he whispered, picking up the speed slightly, his breathing getting heavier.

He continued to drive into you in that position, forcing you to look at him as he thoroughly wrecked you. But he didn't stay in that position forever. He pulled out abruptly, making you whimper at the sudden loss of heat.

"Turn over," he growled, slapping your ass gently. "On your hands and knees. Now."

You scrambled to obey, pushing yourself up into the position on the leather cushions. Hoseok immediately crowded you from behind. He reached around, his hands palming your breasts, squeezing them firmly as he aligned his cock with your dripping entrance.

He drove inside you from behind with one brutal thrust. You screamed into the sofa, your back arching violently as he filled you at a completely different, deeper angle. His hips hammered against your ass with hard thrusts. He reached one hand down, his long fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing it ruthlessly.

"You like it from behind, don't you?" he panted into your ear, his teeth biting down on your shoulder blade. "Look at how good you take me like this. Take your teacher like a good little student."

The pace from behind was relentless. Hoseok didn't give you a moment to catch your breath, his heavy thrusts shaking your entire frame as he matched the speed with a demanding, heavy friction. He kept his grip on your hips, pulling you back onto him with every stroke so he could hit that sweet spot over and over again, the wet slaps of his thighs against your skin echoing loudly.

The pleasure was building too fast, a spring tightening in your lower abdomen. But before you could finish, he moved you again, catching you completely off guard.

Instead of pulling out, he gripped your hips and shifted his weight, rolling backward onto the sofa while keeping his length buried completely inside you. The sudden shift made you gasp, your hands flying to his chest for balance as he pulled you directly on top of him.

He didn't let you control the rhythm. Hoseok’s hands clamped onto your waist, pinning your hips down so you were completely impaled on him, sitting upright on his lap. He leaned his head back against the sofa cushions, a breathless smirk breaking across his face as he looked up at you.

"Look at you up there," he panted, his thumbs digging into your hip bones. "You look beautiful riding me like this. I want you to feel how deep I can go.”

He arched his hips upward, a slow thrust from below that hit your cervix with terrifying accuracy. You threw your head back, a broken sob tearing from your throat as your hands gripped his shoulders so tight your knuckles turned white.

"Hoseok... please, let me move," you pleaded, your core spasming around him.

"I told you, no," he growled, as his hands forced your hips down relentlessly against every thrust of his pelvis. He began to pace himself from underneath, a punishingly deep grind that left you completely undone. "Look down at me. Watch how much of me is inside you right now."

He reached one hand up between your bodies, his long fingers ruthlessly snapping against your swollen clit. The double stimulation of his deep upward thrusts and the sharp friction of his fingers pushed you completely over the edge. Your pussy began to contract violently around his cock.

"I'm coming! Hoseok, I'm coming!" you screamed, your upper body collapsing forward onto his chest as your core clamped down on him in tight spasms.

"Look at how fucking good you take all of me," he panted, his thumbs ruthlessly working your clit as his release poured into you. "Five years older, so much bigger than you... but you still fit me like a glove, don't you? My good girl."

With a loud groan, he delivered three more powerful, heavy thrusts from below, lifting your entire body off the cushions with the sheer force of his hips before locking you against him. He came, his entire body going rigid as he shot his cum deep inside your pulsing core.

The sharp rhythm of his hips finally stopped, leaving only the sound of heavy, ragged breathing echoing off the glass walls of the loft. For a long moment, Hoseok remained locked against you, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his pulse gradually slowed.

The dominant instructor vanished, replaced by a profound, quiet tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, he slipped himself out of you, a soft sigh escaping his lips at the separation. Your legs, trembling and weak, but Hoseok reached down and gathered you into his arms.

He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you away from the rehearsal floor and up the spiral staircase to his private living quarters. He laid you down gently in the centre of his king-sized bed, immediately pulling the heavy silk duvet over your shaking body.

"Stay here," he whispered, his voice incredibly soft, stripping away the rough edge it had carried moments before. He pressed a warm kiss to your forehead before disappearing into the bathroom.

You lay in the quiet dark, your body humming with a deep, exhausted ache. A few minutes later, Hoseok returned. He had thrown on a pair of loose cotton sweatpants, and in his hands, he carried a damp washcloth and a fresh bottle of water.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, pulling the duvet back just enough to expose your lower body. His expression was soft, entirely focused on you as he began to gently clean the dried sweat and the slick traces of his release from your inner thighs. His touch was incredibly light and careful, treating your skin as if it were fragile glass.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, looking up to meet your eyes. "Did I push you too hard?"

"No," you breathed, "It was... perfect."

A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips, not the confident smirk from the studio, but something warm and protective. He set the washcloth aside, pulled the covers back up to your chin, and handed you the water bottle, waiting patiently while you took a few long chugs.

Once you set the bottle on the nightstand, Hoseok slid under the duvet beside you. He pulled your back flush against his chest, wrapping his long arms around your waist and burying his face in the crook of your neck. His skin was warm, his heartbeat a steady, grounding rhythm against your shoulder blades.

"You worked so hard today," he murmured, his fingers gently petting your hair. "Sleep now. I've got you."

Wrapped in his warmth, the lingering adrenaline finally faded, and you let yourself drift off to sleep.

The fluorescent lights of Studio 48 felt blindingly bright the next afternoon.

The room was packed for the standard group class. The chatter was deafening, and it made your head throb. You stood near the back corner, wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed your frame, desperately trying to look invisible.

Every muscle in your body was sore, not from the dancing, but from the hours spent tangled in Hoseok’s leather sofa. Your thighs felt bruised, your core was tender, and there was a dark, distinct bite mark hidden right beneath the collar of your hoodie.

The door clicked open.

The room became quiet. Hoseok walked in, looking handsome. He wore crisp white sweatpants and a matching hoodie, his hair styled, a clean, professional smile on his face. He looked like a completely different person from the sweat drenched man who had possessed you against the leather sofa a day ago.

"Good afternoon, everyone," his voice was bright, energetic. "We have ten days until the showcase. Today, we’re tightening the formations. Let’s get into lines."

As the dancers scrambled to find their positions, Hoseok walked down the centre aisle. He was reviewing his clipboard, giving adjustments as he passed.

"Straighten your spine, Min-jae. Ji-woo, watch your spacing."

He neared the back row. You kept your eyes firmly locked onto the floor, your heart pounding so hard you were certain the person next to you could hear it.

Hoseok stopped directly in front of you.

The scent of his clean laundry and subtle cologne hit you, mixed with the memory of his skin.

"Your posture is sluggish today," Hoseok said, his voice loud enough for the surrounding dancers to hear. It was crisp and strict. "Did you not rest properly last night?"

A few people giggled nearby. You felt hot blood rush to your face, your core throbbing with a sudden, needy ache at his proximity.

"I’m fine, Mr. Jung," you managed to say, keeping your voice level.

"Let me see your alignment," he said.

He stepped behind you to adjust your stance. To the rest of the class, it looked like standard help. But the moment his hands touched your waist, his fingers squeezed with a sudden, firm pressure that was entirely possessive. He leaned in, his chest brushing your back for a split second, his crotch pressing lightly against your ass.

"You're trembling," he whispered, his voice dangerously low, meant only for your ears. "Are you still sore from how deep I was inside you last night?"

You swallowed a gasp, your hands clenching into fists at your sides as a sudden burst of wetness seeped onto your underwear. His professional mask was completely flawless as he walked back to the front of the room. "Alright, from the top! Count it out!"

Throughout the two-hour class, he didn't look at you again. He corrected other dancers, smiled at their jokes, and maintained the perfect image of a dedicated, strict instructor.

But you knew the truth.

The rain in Seoul had a way of turning the city into a blur of neon and gray, but inside Hoseok’s penthouse apartment, the world was completely quiet. The only sound was the steady drumming of the storm against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the river.

It was past midnight. The gruelling six-hour rehearsal was over, leaving your body feeling like jello as you sat on the plush cream rug in his living room, your back leaning against the base of the sofa. Hoseok came out of the kitchen carrying two steaming bowls of quick ramyeon, dressed simply in loose grey sweatpants and a soft black t-shirt. He looked younger like this, stripped of the heavy studio lighting.

"You look exhausted," he said softly, setting the bowls down on the low marble coffee table and sitting on the floor right next to you. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks, sliding them over the smooth table. He didn't say it with the critical edge of an instructor anymore. It sounded more like a quiet observation, almost protective.

"I am exhausted," you admitted, leaning your head back against the cushions. "My shoulders feel like they belong to someone else."

Hoseok reached over, his fingers lightly tapping the back of your hand. "Eat first. Then we talk."

As you pulled a bowl toward you, Hoseok immediately set to work. Without a word, he used his chopsticks to fish out the best pieces of dried seafood from his own bowl, dropping them into yours until your broth was nearly overflowing.

"Hoseok, you don't have to do that," you murmured, staring at the pile.

"You need more energy than I do," he replied, already stirring his own noodles. A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Besides, if you faint in the studio tomorrow, it makes me look bad."

The silence that followed wasn't the suffocating tension of the practice room. It was light and easy. You ate in a comfortable silence, the warmth of the food slowly melting the deep ache in your muscles. Every now and then, you would look up to find him watching you, his gaze soft and remarkably steady. There was no choreography to perfect, and no roles to play.

When you finished, Hoseok leaned back, sliding his empty bowl aside. He reached onto the coffee table and picked up a small, foil wrapped square, sliding it across the marble toward you.

"What's this?" you asked, picking it up.

"Chocolate," he said, shifting slightly as if suddenly self conscious. "You mentioned last week that you always get a craving for something sweet after a long session. I grabbed it at the convenience store downstairs before you arrived."

Your heart did an erratic flip against your ribs. It wasn't the frantic pulse of adrenaline he usually commanded from you on the floor. It was a blooming warmth that spread straight to your chest. 

“Thank you,” you said, your cheeks flushing a vivid crimson.

You unpeeled the foil, breaking off a piece and popping it into your mouth, the rich, cool sweetness instantly cutting through the lingering spice of the ramyeon. You looked down at the shiny wrapper, the quiet comfort of his private space suddenly making a long buried anxiety push its way to the surface. The lines between instructor, partner, and whatever was happening behind closed doors were so tangled, and the pressure of keeping it hidden at the academy was starting to wear on you.

"Hoseok," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. You turned your head, meeting his eyes. "When the showcase ends, what’s gonna happen to us?"

Hoseok froze for a fraction of a second, his expression shifting from relaxed content to something deep, serious, and intensely focused. He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted closer on the rug, his large, warm hand covering yours, his fingers sliding between yours to lock them in place.

"You really don't see it, do you?" he murmured, his thumb rubbing a firm, reassuring circle over the back of your knuckles. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze completely unwavering. "This isn't about the showcase, and it's not some temporary distraction. You're my girl. I thought I made that clear.” The blunt certainty in his voice made your breath hitch, the worry in your stomach dissolving instantly.

"Thank you," you whispered, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

Hoseok watched you, a look of satisfaction settling over his features as he gave your hand one final, firm squeeze. "We have a lot of work left to do before Thursday," he said, his voice dropping back to that soft, intimate register. "But tonight, you did well. I'm proud of you."

He shifted his arm, pulling you into his side so your head rested against his shoulder. For a long time, neither of you spoke, content to just sit in the quiet penthouse, letting the rain fall against the glass.

But the comfort of his words, the raw admission that you were his, began to morph the quiet atmosphere into something thick and heavy. The steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek grew heavier. You shifted slightly, your hand sliding down his flat stomach, feeling the muscles ripple under your touch. Guided by a sudden surge of heat, you climbed onto your knees, shifting your weight until you were straddling his lap, looking down at him.

Hoseok leaned his head back against the base of the sofa, his dark eyes half-lidded as he tracked your movements. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"You're getting bold," he murmured, his voice dropping into that rough, low register. His large hands came up to rest loosely on your hips. “What are you doing?"

"I want to thank you properly," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reached down to the waistband of his grey sweatpants.

Hoseok didn't stop you. He simply watched, his breathing turning shallow as you slid the fabric down his thighs, exposing his thick length. He was already fully erect, heavy and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip. You leaned down, your breath ghosting over his heat before you wrapped your lips around the crown of his head.

Hoseok let out a low, ragged groan. "Ah, fuck... look at you. Down on your knees for your teacher."

You took him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge as your hand grabbed the base of his shaft, guiding him in a slow rhythm. 

"You're so good at this," Hoseok panted, his hips twitching upward instinctively as you picked up the pace, sucking him into the warmth of your mouth. He leaned forward, his hands moving from your hips to tangle firmly in your hair, guiding your head with a firm, possessive grip. "Suck it, baby. Show me how much you want to please me tonight.”

You let out a muffled whimper, your eyes watering as you took him as deep as you could manage, your tongue coating his length as your thumb rubbed the underside of his shaft to drive him closer to the edge. Hoseok’s jaw was locked tight, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead as he controlled his breathing.

"Stop," he suddenly growled, his grip on your hair tightening as he pulled you back, forcing you to release him with a wet smack. He was breathing heavily, his pupils so blown they nearly swallowed his irises. "If you keep doing that, I'm going to come right down your throat, and I don’t want to finish just yet."

Before you could process the loss of heat, he grabbed your waist and flipped you easily onto your back against the plush cream rug. He loomed over you, his frame pinning you down as his hands hooked into the waistband of your shorts and underwear, dragging them down your legs in one impatient motion.

"Hoseok—"

"Quiet," he commanded softly, his voice vibrating with absolute authority as he pushed your knees all the way back toward your shoulders. "Look at you. Completely bare for me.” 

Your face burned with a furious blush, your core throbbing as his fingers brushed against your soaked folds, spreading your slickness over your clit.

"You’re my student," Hoseok murmured, his voice a dark, gravelly purr as he slid two fingers deep inside your tight, aching heat, forcing a loud sob from your throat. "You’re supposed to be listening to my critiques, taking my notes. Instead, you're lying on my rug, dripping wet, begging your dance instructor to fuck you. Tell me how bad you want it."

"Please, Hoseok," you whimpered, your hips rolling helplessly against his fingers as he pumped them deep inside you, his thumb ruthlessly grinding against your swollen clit. "I want you. Please."

The sheer dominance in his gaze made your entire body go rigid, and any lingering restraint he had left completely shattered.

"Say my name," he growled against your lips, his pace accelerating until you were screaming into the empty room.

"Please, Hoseok... fuck me," you begged, tears of pleasure escaping your eyes as his fingers drove deeper, hitting your sweet spot.

"Good girl," he panted, pulling his fingers out with a wet smack. He grabbed his cock, lining it up against your opening, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an unshakeable intensity. "Remember who taught you how to move like this."

With one slow thrust, Hoseok buried his entire length inside your tight core.

A loud moan left your throat, the fullness of him stretching you out completely and leaving you breathless. Your hands gripped his broad shoulders as he stayed frozen for a beat, his chest heaving against yours as your muscles clamped around him in an agonizingly tight grip.

"Fuck," Hoseok roared softly, his jaw straining as he felt your warmth enveloping him. "You're so tight for me. Wrap your legs around my waist. Take every single inch."

He began to move, pulling back until just the tip remained before slamming back inside you with controlled roughness. He grounded his hips against yours with every thrust, forcing breathless moans from your throat.

"You're doing so well," he whispered roughly, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, forcing you to take every single inch.

The pleasure built into a crushing wave. Just as you were about to come, Hoseok suddenly pulled out, making you let out a breathless whine of protest. He didn't give you time to complain; he gripped your hips and flipped you over onto your hands and knees, pulling your body up into a tight arch.

"Stay right there," he growled, slapping your ass roughly. He loomed behind you, his dark eyes admiring the view of your flushed skin and trembling legs. 

"Look at how your hips are shaking. Am I going too hard, baby?" he whispered mockingly.

"Hoseok, please, I need you," you whimpered, looking back over your shoulder.

"Then ask nicely."

"Please... please fuck me from behind, sir," you sobbed.

He let out a low, satisfied laugh, his hands gripping your waist firmly as he lined himself up and drove back into you from behind in one deep, ruthless stroke. The new angle hit you perfectly, sending a shockwave of pleasure through your entire body. You screamed into the empty apartment, your fingers digging into the plush fabric of the rug for support.

Hoseok's pace became relentless. He held your hips tightly, pulling you back against every authoritative thrust. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the quiet penthouse, drowning out the steady beat of the rain. He leaned down over your back, his chest pressing against yours as his teeth lightly grazed the shell of your ear.

"You're mine," he whispered roughly, his breathing completely fractured. "Tell me who you belong to.”

"You... Hoseok, I belong to you," you gasped, your head rolling back as the friction pushed you over the edge.

Sensing your peak, Hoseok shifted his grip, pulling you up into a standing position against the low marble coffee table. He forced you to bend over the smooth surface, your hands resting on the cold stone as he pulled one of your legs up on the table, opening you up completely for a final, desperate angle.

He didn't hesitate. He drove into you hard and fast, his cadence turning ruthless as he chased his own release. The contrast of the cold marble against your hands and his scorching heat tearing into you from behind was overwhelming.

"Come for me, baby," he commanded, his voice a dark, rough growl against your neck. "Show your teacher how good you can be. Let me feel it."

With a final, deep thrust that hit your cervix, your body fractured. You gasped, your core clamping around his length in a powerful, draining orgasm that had your thighs shaking against. The sensation was too much for Hoseok; he let out a low, guttural groan, his eyes rolling back as he delivered three more frantic, heavy strokes before burying himself completely to the hilt and releasing his own hot spill deep inside you.

He collapsed against your back, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist to hold you up as his breathing raged against your neck. The storm outside continued to lash against the glass, but inside, your bodies remained locked together on the floorboards, completely ruined by the rhythm you had just built together.

For several minutes, the only sound in the penthouse was the synchronized, heavy rush of your breathing slowing down to match the steady beat of the rain. Hoseok didn't pull away immediately. He kept his weight pressing you gently into the low table, his face buried in the crook of your neck as his pulse slowly settled against your skin.

When he finally shifted, he did so with a tenderness that completely erased the fierce authority of the last hour. He eased himself out of you with a soft sigh, immediately wrapping his arms around your waist to support you as your trembling knees threatened to give out.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice returning to that quiet, protective register. "Be careful, baby."

He carefully guided you back down onto the plush cream rug, gathering your limp frame into his arms until you were curled against his bare chest. He reached over to the sofa, pulling down a thick, oversized fleece blanket and draping it completely over both of you, tucking the edges around your shoulders to keep out the chill of the storm-cooled room.

Your body felt completely drained, a pleasant, heavy ache settling deep into your muscles. Your face was still flushed, pressed directly over his heart, listening to the steady, reassuring thud beneath his ribs.

Hoseok didn't say anything for a long time. He simply held you, one of his large hands slowly tracing comforting, rhythmic lines up and down your bare back beneath the blanket. Every now and then, he would lean down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head or the sensitive skin of your temple.

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his fingers tangling into your hair, gently pulling it away from your damp face.

"Mmm," you hummed, pressing closer into his warmth. "Just tired."

A small, genuine chuckle vibrated in his chest. "You worked hard today. In the studio, and here." He reached over to the low coffee table, picking up an unsealed bottle of water he had kept nearby. He capped it and held it to your lips, tipping it carefully so you could take a few slow sips. "Drink a little."

You drank, the cool water instantly soothing your throat. When you finished, he set the bottle down and pulled you right back against his side, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head.

"The transitions tomorrow are going to feel easier," he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow circle into your shoulder. "Your body knows the rhythm now. I'll make sure we take it easy during the morning session."

The anxiety that had been tightly coiled in your chest for weeks was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, unshakeable security. Sitting in the quiet of his apartment, wrapped in his blanket and his warmth, the boundaries didn't feel tangled anymore. They just felt like different parts of the same steady rhythm.

"Thank you, Hoseok," you whispered against his skin.

"He looks at you differently."

The words were dropped casually, but they hit like a bomb. You stopped mid stretch, your heart seizing as you looked up at Hana.

Hana was one of the top senior dancers at the academy, sharp, incredibly talented, and fiercely competitive. She was standing by the water cooler, adjusting her shoes, her eyes locked onto you in the mirror.

"What do you mean?" you asked, keeping your voice as neutral as possible.

"Mr. Jung," Hana said, turning around to face you fully, crossing her arms. "During the duet auditions, he barely looked at the rest of us. But when you dance? He doesn't look at his clipboard once. He watches your hips. He watches your mouth. If you're sleeping with him to bridge that experience gap and steal the centre spot in the showcase, just own it. But don't act like it's talent."

"I'm not—"

"Save it," Hana snapped, stepping closer, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. "The academy board is coming to review the dress rehearsal on Thursday. If I see even a fraction of that favouritism, I’ll make sure the director gets an anonymous tip about what happens in Studio 48 after hours."

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving you frozen in the centre of the room.

The room suddenly felt incredibly cold. The stakes weren't just your spot in the showcase anymore; it was Hoseok’s entire career. If Hana exposed your relationship, the scandal would ruin his reputation before his residency even began.

When the door clicked open a minute later, and Hoseok walked in, his usual bright energy filling the space, you couldn't even bring yourself to look at him.

The threat wasn't empty. Hana had the connections to back it up, and you had nothing but a secret that felt heavier by the hour.

So, you did the only thing that felt like survival: you pulled back.

When the afternoon block began on Tuesday, you purposely took a spot in the far corner, buried deep in the third row behind the taller ensemble dancers. You kept your eyes locked strictly on the mirrors, tracking the geometry of the group rather than the figure pacing the front of the room.

Hoseok noticed the shift immediately.

From the moment the opening track started, you could feel his gaze scanning the floor, his dark eyes cutting through the crowd until they anchored on your reflection in the glass. He didn't say anything at first. He let the rehearsal run for forty minutes, his voice sharp and clinical as he corrected the spacing of the front lines, but the tension radiating off him was making the entire room nervous.

"Again from the transition," Hoseok commanded, his tone dropping an octave. He walked slowly down the centre aisle, the crowd naturally parting around his steady stride. He stopped right at the edge of the second row, his eyes fixed entirely on you. "The back line is lagging. Someone is dragging the tempo."

You kept your chin up, refusing to let your eyes meet his. "I'll adjust my timing, Mr. Jung," you said, your voice formal and completely devoid of the warmth you usually shared in private.

A flash of frustration flickered across Hoseok’s features. His jaw tightened so hard that a small muscle leaned out. He stepped closer, his heavy cedar-wood scent instantly cutting through the humid air of the studio.

"You don't need to adjust your timing," he said softly, a low vibration that carried a warning meant only for your ears. "You need to fix your alignment. You're hiding in the back row."

"The formation requires balance," you muttered, looking at the floorboards to avoid the intense, searching burn of his gaze. "I'm just keeping my parameters where they belong."

Hoseok let out a short, heavy breath. He looked like a man desperately trying to maintain professionalism while his patience was being stripped away piece by piece. He looked around the room, clapping his hands once with a sharp sound.

"Take a fifteen-minute break," he ordered the class, his voice booming. "Clear the room. Get some air."

The dancers didn't hesitate. Sensing the volatile energy bouncing off the walls, they grabbed their towels and hurried out into the hallway, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them.

You turned immediately to grab your water bottle from the back wall, intending to slip out with the rest of the ensemble, but a heavy hand clamped around your wrist before you could take a single step.

Hoseok didn't pull you. He just held you there, his grip warm and firm.

"Let go, Hoseok," you whispered, your heart doing a frantic, painful flip against your ribs as you glanced toward the frosted glass of the studio doors. "Someone could see."

"Let them look," he growled softly, his voice dropping into that private register that made your knees weak. He didn't let go of your wrist; instead, his fingers slid down to lock tightly with yours, his thumb pressing hard against the back of your hand. He used his weight to gently guide you backward until your hips met the wooden structure of the wall. "What are you doing?"

"I'm practicing," you said, trying to pull your hand back, but his grip only tightened, anchoring you to him.

"You're avoiding me," Hoseok corrected, stepping directly into your personal space. He loomed over you, his chest heaving slightly from the rehearsal, his dark eyes frantic and dark with a sudden, raw anxiety. "You didn't answer my text last night. You didn't come to the car after the last class. And today, you're hiding behind the third row like I'm a stranger. Talk to me, please."

The vulnerability in his voice made the anxiety in your chest burn even hotter.

"Hana came to me," you admitted, the words spilling out in a quiet, breathless rush as the tears you'd been fighting finally pricked your eyes. "She knows, Hoseok. Or she suspects enough to go to the board."

Hoseok froze. The fierce, demanding energy left his frame all at once, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness. His eyes searched your face, taking in the genuine terror and exhaustion written in your expression.

"She threatened you?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper.

"If I keep standing next to you out there, I'm going to ruin your residency, and I'm going to destroy my own career. I can't do this anymore, Hoseok."

"No," Hoseok said instantly, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his own sudden fear.

Before you could process the shift, he slid his hand up from your fingers to cup the side of your face, his large, warm palm holding you firmly as he forced you to look at him. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged against your lips.

"Don't pull away from me," he murmured, his thumb desperately brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. "I don't care about Hana. I don't care about anything else. I am pulling myself apart trying to navigate the board to keep you safe, but if you make me play the stranger because you're scared... it's going to break me."

The sheer honesty of his words hung heavily in the quiet studio, stripping away all the politics and the threats outside the room. He held you so close you could feel the frantic, irregular hammering of his heart against your chest.

"Just give me until the dress rehearsal," Hoseok whispered against your skin, his grip on your face possessive yet incredibly gentle. "Please.. don't hide from me again."

The heavy thud of your heart slowly began to steady as his words settled over the empty studio. Looking into his eyes, you didn't see the untouchable global director or the demanding instructor who controlled the room with a single glance. You just saw Hoseok, completely stripped of his pride, holding onto you as if you were the only anchor he had left.

The sheer desperation in his confession dissolved the block of fear Hana had planted in your chest.

"I'm sorry," you whispered softly, your hands rising to gently wrap around his wrists, feeling the rapid, electric pulse beneath his skin. "I was just so terrified of losing everything. Of ruining this for you."

Hoseok let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension finally draining from his broad shoulders. He leaned heavier against you, closing the small distance left between your bodies until your chests were pressed flush together. He didn't say anything immediately, he just held his forehead against yours, absorbing the fact that you weren't pulling away anymore.

"You could never ruin this for me," he murmured, his voice low, raspy, and thick with emotion. He shifted his hands from your face, sliding them down your neck to lock securely behind your lower back, pulling your hips flush against his track pants. "The residency means nothing if I’m standing on that stage alone. I built this piece for us. Nobody else can dance it."

"What about the board?" you asked, though the question felt far less daunting now with his arms wrapped tightly around you. "If Hana goes to them before Thursday..."

Hoseok pulled back just enough to look down at you, a slow, unshakeable certainty returning to his dark eyes. The vulnerability from a moment ago shifted into a fierce, protective focus.

"Let her go to them," he said, his voice dropping into a quiet register that vibrated with absolute authority. "I’ve already submitted the final staging to the executive directors. They’ve seen the rehearsal footage of our duet. Hana has leverage because of her family, but she doesn't have the leverage of an amazing production. They won't risk pulling you when they see what we do on that floor."

He reached down, his long fingers wrapping around your hand, lifting it up between your faces. His fingers intertwined with yours, locking tightly, anchoring you to his side.

"You don't hide in the back row anymore," Hoseok commanded softly, his eyes locking onto yours with an undeniable devotion. "Tomorrow, when we run the dress rehearsal, you take the centre. Let Hana watch. Let the board watch. We give them a performance so perfect that any rumour she tries to spread just looks like jealousy."

The last remnants of your anxiety completely washed away, replaced by a sudden determination. You looked at your joined hands, then back up at his face, a genuine smile finally breaking through your exhaustion.

"Okay," you breathed, stepping closer to press a soft, lingering kiss against his jawline, inhaling the comforting scent of cedar-wood and clean sweat. "No more hiding."

Hoseok let out a soft, relieved laugh against your hair, his arms tightening around your waist for one last, protective squeeze before the studio doors could open again. The secret was still there, but standing in his hold, you finally knew exactly where you stood, and it was right by his side.

The bulletin board was surrounded by a thick crowd of whispering students.

You stood at the wall, your heart in your throat, as the crowd finally parted. The official lineup for the Grand Showcase had been posted.

There it was, in bold, black ink:

CLOSING PIECE: STATIC Choreography by: Jung Hoseok

Featured Duet: Jung Hoseok & Y/N

A collective murmur went through the students. You felt a pair of eyes burning into the side of your face. You turned to see Hana standing a few feet away, her arms crossed, a venomous look on her face.

"He actually did it," Hana whispered, stepping closer to you so the others couldn't hear. "He actually gave his favorite the closing number over dancers who have been here twice as long. The board is going to love hearing about how you earned that spot."

"I earned it by dancing until my feet bled, Hana," you said, your voice finally finding a firm edge. "If you think you can do the routine better, go ask him for an audition. Otherwise, stay out of my way."

You walked past her, your heart pounding but your jaw set.

But the anxiety didn't leave you. The showcase was in forty-eight hours. The board of directors, international scouts, and the entire academy faculty would be sitting in the front rows. The performance had to be absolutely flawless, not just for the sake of the art, but to prove to yourself that you could do this.

The backstage area of the main theater was a chaotic maze of clothing racks, rolling makeup stations, and frantic stage managers barking orders into headsets.

The final dress rehearsal was scheduled for 8:00 PM. You stood in the small dressing room Hoseok had assigned to you, staring at yourself in the full-length mirror. The costume for the duet was breathtakingly minimalist. A skin-tight, black bodysuit with a delicate silk skirt wrapping around your hips. It felt like a second skin, showing every movement of your muscles. But looking at your reflection, all you could feel was a cold, paralyzing weight settling deep in your chest.

Your hands were trembling so badly you couldn't get the clasp on the side to fasten properly.

The door opened with a soft turn of the knob. Hoseok stepped inside, closing the door behind him to shut out the roaring noise of the backstage hallway. He was already dressed in his matching performance attire, black silk trousers and a loose, unbuttoned black shirt, exposing his defined abs.

He stopped when he saw you. His expression softened instantly, the sharp, authoritative instructor melting away the moment he looked at your face. He didn't say a word about the routine or the schedule. He walked over to you with slow, quiet steps, stopping right behind you.

"Hey," he murmured, his voice incredibly low and gentle. He reached out, his large, warm hands gently covering yours to stop their trembling. He unclasped your fingers from the zipper, taking over the task himself with practiced, steady movements. "What's wrong?"

You swallowed hard, your eyes meeting him in the reflection. "Hana is out there," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the pressure. “She’s going to expose us.”

The fear was entirely consuming, a suffocating reminder of how precarious your position was compared to a seasoned industry professional like Hana.

Hoseok finished adjusting your costume. He turned you around slowly by the waist so you were facing him directly. He didn't crowd you, but he stepped close enough to completely block the door, shielding you from the rest of the world. He reached up, his warm palms cupping the sides of your face, his thumbs gently wiping away a tear that had escaped down your cheek.

"Look at me," Hoseok commanded softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an unshakeable, fierce certainty. "Hana can whisper to the directors all night. She can sit in the centre row and judge every frame. But she doesn't decide who stands on that stage. I do."

"But the agency—"

"The agency hired me because I know exactly what perfection looks like," Hoseok interrupted gently, his voice ringing with a deep, emotional intensity that made your heart swell. He slid his hands down to your shoulders, holding you firmly, anchoring you to the floor. "And I chose you. Not because of a contract, and not because it was easy. I chose you because when we dance, you are the only one who can match me. You have so much raw, beautiful power inside you, and I’m not going to let her steal that from you."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his breathing steady and warm against your skin. The scent of his cologne enveloped you, instantly centreing your anxious thoughts.

"Do you trust me?" he whispered against your skin.

"Yes," you breathed, your hands coming up to clutch the fabric of his shirt, finally finding your footing. "I trust you."

Hoseok let out a soft, relieved breath, a genuine, comforting smile finally breaking across his face. He leaned in and kissed the top of your head, his arms wrapping around you to pull you into a tight, protective embrace. He held you there for a long moment, letting you absorb his strength until the trembling in your hands completely stopped.

"Good," he murmured into your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction. "Then we go out there, and we give them nothing to talk about. Let them watch us. By the time the music stops, they won't even remember anyone else's name."

A sharp knock on the dressing room door broke the quiet. "Director Jung? Two minutes for the duet segment!"

Hoseok didn't pull away immediately. He gave your shoulders one last, reassuring squeeze, his eyes shining with absolute pride. "Let's go show them exactly who you are."

"Places for the closing number! Static, to the stage!"

The intercom echoed backstage. Your heart was a frantic drumbeat against your ribs as you stood in the wings. Through the gap in the heavy black velvet curtains, you could see the crowded auditorium, the board of directors, and Hana sitting near the front rows, waiting.

Hoseok stepped up beside you. He kept his gaze fixed on the dark stage ahead, his profile sharp and focused. Beneath the shadow of the curtain, his hand slid down, his fingers intertwining with yours. He squeezed your hand once, a silent transmission of absolute trust.

"The stage is ours," he whispered, finally looking at you.

The lights went completely black.

You moved into the centre of the stage in total darkness, kneeling on the cold floor. The opening bassline hit the sound system, vibrating through the floorboards.

The lights flashed up, a single overhead beam of deep crimson illuminating the two of you.

On the first downbeat, Hoseok moved.

The performance was a total confession. Every touch and lift that you had practiced in his loft was amplified under the lights. Hoseok pulled you into his space with a slow pull, his hands locking around your waist as he lifted you into the air against the red glow.

You didn't look at the audience or the board. You looked only at him.

The chemistry between you was undeniable. When the choreography forced your bodies to slide against each other, the friction was electric. Hoseok’s eyes were burning, his movements heavy with a dominant grace.

During the climax of the piece, the music slowed to an electronic pulse. Hoseok moved in close, trapping you against his chest from behind. His hand slid up to the front of your neck, his palm warm against your throat as he guided your head back to rest against his shoulder. Moving in synchronization, the smooth line of his hips pressed flush against your backside in front of a thousand watching eyes. His touch lingered on your skin with an intensity, showing exactly how he commanded the piece.

The audience was dead silent, their breath caught in their throats.

The piece ended on a sharp, abrupt explosion of sound. Hoseok pulled you into a final, deep dip, his chest heaving against yours, his face inches from your mouth as his hand gripped your waist with unyielding pressure.

The lights slammed into total blackness. For a second, there was absolute silence. Then, the room exploded.

A deafening wall of applause shattered the quiet. The house lights came up, revealing the entire audience, including the board of directors, standing on their feet. Hana was staring from the wings, her threats completely erased.

Hoseok had a professional smile as he bowed to the crowd. But as he turned to look at you, his eyes were dark with a proud look.

The celebration at the academy had lasted until midnight, but the two of you had slipped away long before the final toasts were finished.

Now, his penthouse was completely quiet. The Han River glittered outside the massive glass window, casting silver ripples across the dark ceiling. The performance costumes lay discarded in a tangled heap of black fabric near the entryway, leaving the room entirely peaceful.

You sat on his king-sized bed, wearing nothing but one of his oversized t-shirts, the cool air from the open window washing over your skin. The residency was secured. The board had offered him a permanent contract on the spot, and your position as his partner was solidified beyond question. 

Hoseok walked out of the bathroom, a towel slung around his neck, dressed only in loose grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. The sharpness was gone, replaced entirely by the raw presence he only showed with you.

He stopped at the edge of the mattress, his eyes sweeping over you in the dim light. A heavy silence fell over the room as his gaze tracked the bare line of your legs.

"You were perfect tonight," Hoseok whispered, his voice smooth, low, and filled with a profound warmth. He crawled onto the bed, his movements fluid and deliberate, until he was looming over you. He reached out, his long fingers gently sliding underneath the hem of his shirt, tracing the sensitive skin of your thigh up to your hip. "Every eye in that room was on you, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to take you home and feel this."

"You have me now," you murmured, reaching up to wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down.

Hoseok let out a low, breathy growl, his mouth coming down to capture yours in a deep, consuming kiss. It wasn't the frantic, rushed energy of the rehearsal rooms; it was slow, heavy, and intoxicatingly possessive. His tongue slipped past your lips, claiming your mouth.

He shifted his weight, his large, warm hands sliding up your waist to pull the oversized shirt completely over your head, leaving you bare beneath him. Hoseok looked down at you, his breathing turning ragged as his eyes traced every curve of your body, dark with a heavy, unmasked hunger.

"Beautiful," he rasped, his hand sliding down to the inside of your thigh, gently nudging your legs apart. His long fingers brushed against your centre, finding you already soft, damp, and completely ready for him.

You let out a soft gasp as his thumb rubbed a circle over your clit, sending a wave of electricity straight to your chest. Your hips instinctively arched toward his hand, your fingers tangling into his damp hair.

"Hoseok..."

"I've been waiting for this all night," he murmured against your throat, his lips pressing warm, lingering kisses along your jawline down to your collarbone.

He dragged his sweatpants down, freeing his cock. He didn't rush. He positioned himself between your thighs, the smooth head of his shaft pressing flush against your slick entrance. He paused there for a long, agonizing beat, his dark eyes locking onto yours, waiting until you nodded softly.

With a slow, heavy tilt of his hips, Hoseok slid inside you.

Your eyes drifted shut as your breath hitched, your body stretching to accommodate the thick, burning fullness of him. He drove himself deeper, a slow, agonizingly deep thrust that buried his length entirely within your tight, soaked core. You let out a quiet cry into the empty room, your hands gripping his bare shoulders as he held himself deep inside you, letting you adjust to the weight of him.

"Look at me," Hoseok commanded softly, his voice rough.

You opened your eyes, meeting his burning gaze in the dim light. Every thrust was slow and deep, the friction electric as his hips ground firmly against yours with absolute authority. He held your wrists, locking your fingers with his against the mattress, anchoring you to him as he controlled the rhythm completely.

He wasn't loud, but the absolute certainty in his movements left you completely breathless. He accelerated slightly, his thrusts turning deeper, a soft, wet friction filling the quiet space between the beats of the city below.

Your core clamped down tightly around him with every heavy stroke, the pleasure building rapidly into a tight, unbearable knot in your stomach. Hoseok let out a low, gravelly groan against your ear, his chest heaving violently against yours as his pace turned more urgent, his body driving into yours with a deep, unyielding pressure.

"From now on," Hoseok whispered, his breath hot against your skin as he delivered three final, deep thrusts that made your vision blur. "You belong with me. On that stage, and in this bed."

The sudden, intense friction broke you. Your core exploded in a shattering, full-body climax, your muscles rippling tightly around his shaft. Hoseok followed you over the edge a second later with a low moan, his body locking up as he spilled his cum deep inside you.

The shadows of the loft stretched long and warm across the floorboards as he slowly collapsed against your side, pulling you securely into his chest. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your cheek, his arm wrapping around your waist in a tight, protective hold.

In the quiet sanctuary of his room, Hoseok kissed the top of your head, his voice a soft, permanent vow in the dark.

"I love you."

You couldn't help but sulk a little. Not good enough.

It wasn't his fault: you knew what you were signing up for when he invited you to join him for dinner with his team. A light-hearted, professional meal surrounded by people who were more than acquaintances but less than friends.

You took another sip of your martini, letting the burn of the liquor fizzle out in the back of your throat, hitting you where it made your eyes almost water.

The restaurant was pretty: dimmed lights cast hazy shadows over the white tablecloths, with little tea candles set neatly on every table. The conversation was light, discussing Jimin's schedule while he was back in town, before he would be in Spain for the next stop of the tour.

"Well, since you fly out next week, we'll have you stop at Dior for a fitting and some press photos for them before you leave. Can we make that your Monday plans?"

You tried not to frown. You already had very limited time with him back in Seoul, and even though you knew that he would fly you out to see him at any given moment, it bothered you that he couldn't just give you all of him while he was back.

And maybe you were selfish for that.

"Monday is good for me," Jimin nodded, his hand lifting off your leg to take another sip of his drink. The part of your leg that he was just holding suddenly felt too cold.

In another weak attempt to steal his attention, you leaned into him a little further, letting the ends of your hair tickle against his shoulder. Jimin turned to you briefly with a sweet little smile.

"You're doing okay?"

"Guess so." You gave him a reluctant nod, and he pecked your nose before turning his attention back to the rest of the table.

In a moment of defeat, you lifted your head off his shoulder, turning your attention to the rest of the dining room for a moment. You absentmindedly brushed your hand down his arm, landing it on his upper thigh. You felt his muscles tense under your touch, even though his head was still turned away from you.

That wasn't nothing.

You glanced down at his reaction, letting your hand lie there, as if scanning for another movement, checking that it wasn't just in your head. You brushed your hand against his trousers again, dragging one manicured nail up towards his waistband curiously. Another flex of his muscle. This time, Jimin turned to look at you.

"All good?" he gave you a little smile, a hint of curiosity behind it.

"Mhm," you nodded, before letting him return to his conversation.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He was technically working. And yet, the drinks were feeling just good enough, in that sweet spot that made anything you thought now feel like a good idea.

Especially if it meant making him mad.

A little smile grew on your face as the idea came into your head, fully formed and eager.

You dropped both hands from the table, tucking them under the tablecloth innocently. First, one hand on his knee, the other hanging dangerously close to the hem of your dress. You lifted your hand up onto your fingertips, letting each of your nails drag slowly, purposefully up the length of his thigh. Jimin's eyes widened a little as he listened to his manager chat with him, before his hand disappeared under the tablecloth, his hand covering yours, pinning it still.

Just as you thought.

Your free hand crept up over his lap, tugging innocently on his belt loop, just enough to let him know you were there. No reaction.

You tested the waters, stepping your fingers over to the clasp of his trousers, just fiddling with it enough to make him nervous.

"Baby," he murmured to you, his tone shifting ever so slightly in only a way that you knew to notice. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," you said innocently. Jimin looked at you, his eyes still warm on the outside, but a flicker of annoyance definitely shone through if you really took the time to look.

Below the edge of the table, he took your hand and gently plucked it off of his zipper fly, before returning it to your domain. And this time, it felt final. 

The dinner briefly returned to normal, your own frustration at bay for a few minutes, until a fantastically evil idea popped into your head when one of the gentlemen at the table suggested another round of drinks. As soon as the server arrived to take orders, you requested another martini, to which Jimin gave you a light squeeze on your leg. 

“You sure you haven’t had too much to drink, my love?” His voice was sweet, the lingering tone of annoyance just barely detectable on his tongue. What a gentleman.

But you wanted to be anything but ladylike with him right now. 

“I’m doing just fine, Jimin-ssi,” you said with a little smirk. 

His jaw ticked, just a little at that nickname. Jimin hated it when you talked to him like you were just pals. He was your boyfriend, and you were his woman, and he liked keeping it in that tone. The way you talked to him, like he was just another classmate, got under his skin, and you knew it very well. 

As soon as the server left, your hands were back to trying to explore his lap. Jimin couldn’t fight you this time; he was trying so hard not to fight you at the table because he was such a professional. All of that went out the window when you got bolder and dropped your hand right over the crotch of his pants. Not moving, but just letting the weight of your palm burn through the material of his trousers, heavy and present. 

And this time, his reaction was definitely not nothing. 

Jimin wasn’t very good at hiding his expressions, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself at the little ‘O’ that formed with his mouth at your touch before he leaned forward against the table. And unfortunately for him, both his hands were busy as he tried to cut another piece of his meal with his fork and knife. You took the opportunity to palm him a little more properly now, nothing too vulgar, but just enough to knead him comfortably through his trousers, feel the blood and stiffness start to build up under your fingertips. Your smile grew a little wider before you caught yourself, poking your tongue in your cheek so as not to raise suspicion. He caught a glance of your expression, your cheekiness making him all the more bothered.

Jimin looked properly irritated now, the tension manifesting itself on his face. His one hand dropped to his lap, landing on your wrist before holding it steady. 

The conversation eventually drifted from Jimin to between two other staff members, and he finally turned to face you.

“Whatever you’re trying to do, baby, stop it,” he warned in a low whisper. “Not here.” His hand held your wrist steady, freezing your hand in its tracks. 

You gave him a playful pout before leaning in to whisper in his ear. 

“Unlucky for you, I have two hands,” you purred, before letting your other hand resume what the first was doing, massaging and palming him over his trousers just under the tablecloth. 

Jimin’s eyes fluttered for a second, almost like he was about to let out a groan, before they widened and he remembered exactly where he was. His stern look returned to his face, but his eyes seemed a little wider, as if silently begging you to obey him. 

And of course, you weren’t going to. 

As soon as the server returned with the drinks, you decided to perform your grand finale. An innocent reach over the table to collect your drink became a careless knock of your wrist, just enough to tip Jimin’s own half-full water glass all over the table…and his lap. 

“Shit,” he muttered as he hopped up a little in his seat, the cool water soaking into the top layer of his clothing. 

“Oh no,” his manager said with a small frown. “Jimin, you’re okay?” 

Jimin nodded up at him, still a little flustered, his irritation growing increasingly apparent on his face. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, honey. Here, let me,” you cooed.

You took your napkin off the table and pressed it innocently against his lap, but hidden beneath the white fabric square, you dragged your full palm and fingers up the outline of his hardened length. Jimin visibly jolted in his seat as you continued stroking him through the cloth, applying just enough pressure to make him squirm. Jimin looked at you in disbelief as you dragged your hand up from base to tip in one firm motion, your eyes batting innocently up at him, your teeth buried sweetly into your lower lip, giving him a look that you knew he understood. 

“We can ask the server for another napkin,” another staff member offered before putting her hand up to call the server over.

“Oh, that’s a good idea, thank you,” you cooed, still palming him under the guise of drying him. He knocked his head back a little with a frustrated, furrowed brow as you continued sizing him up in the middle of the restaurant. 

“Mmph,” Jimin let out a muffled groan before coughing. But for some miraculous reason, his hands never came up to stop yours.

“I’m so sorry, honey; I didn’t mean to,” you said, drawling out your words ever so slightly. You leaned up into his ear, pressing your lips directly against his ear before whispering, “Please forgive me, Jimin.”

Jimin looked like he was going to snap. 

“It’s okay,” he says through gritted teeth before desperately shoving your hand off him, leaving the very evident tent in his pants abandoned under the tablecloth. 

You took a satisfied sip of your drink, the cocky smile unable to hide on your expression. Jimin noticed your look, and it made him a little more irritated. You didn’t even look one bit sorry.

After a few painfully long minutes of Jimin shuffling uncomfortably in his seat, stiff in his pants, with your eyeing him like he was your favourite dessert, the dinner finally came to its well-deserved end.

“It’s getting late,” one of the gentlemen says with a quick scan of his watch. “And Mr. Park’s in need of an outfit change, so maybe we should call it a night,” he says with a chuckle.

Jimin was a gentleman; he would always stay until the bill was settled and walk everyone out. But tonight was different. He hurriedly stood up before collecting his bag and helping you out of your chair. 

“Thank you for tonight,” he said with a small, rushed bow to the table, his hand conveniently covering his crotch. “I’m just feeling a bit tired now, so if you don’t mind, Y/N and I are going to go.” You gave a little bow together with him, before waving at the rest of the team. 

The walk back to the car was quiet. Jimin’s hand held yours in a way that made it feel like you were in trouble, and you could already feel the stir building up in your belly. You leaned against the wall sweetly as Jimin hit the elevator button for the underground lot. 

“Jimin-ah,” you cooed, your head cocked a little extra as you let your hair cascade off your shoulders. “Aren’t you going to talk to me?” Jimin glared at you, jaw ticking, and said nothing. 

The elevator arrived with a muted ding, and the two of you stepped inside. 

“Listen,” you turned your head to lean against his shoulder again, letting out a breathy exhale just as a cherry on top. “I’m sorry about the wat–” 

His hand suddenly came forward, pressing the emergency stop button with a forceful smack of his hand.

You dropped your act for a moment.

“Jimin, what are y–” 

You were cut off by his mouth driving into yours, harsh and angry, and you almost couldn’t tell if he wanted to kiss you or just shut you the fuck up. You let out an involuntary whine at his aggression, your hands finding themselves in his long blonde hair immediately. 

“Is this what you wanted? Screwing with me at dinner until I lost my composure? Huh?” Jimin growled into your mouth, and you couldn’t help but let out a satisfied giggle back. 

His hands immediately consumed your body, gripping your waist and pulling you closer to him, every inch of your body being pinned against his. Even through his dress shirt, you could feel the hard ridges of his toned abdomen underneath, the flex of his torso making you smile deeper into the kiss. Jimin continued kissing you, his teeth nibbling and snapping at your lower lip as he practically ate you alive. Your teeth were knocking together, messy and furious, his brows furrowed as he kissed you with all the anger that he had been desperately hiding throughout dinner. 

“You’re a little fucking brat sometimes, my love,” he hissed, pulling away just enough to speak against your mouth. You grinned back.

“I wasn’t doing anything, Jimin.” Your eyes were wide and mischievous, looking up at him like you loved being where you were.

“Yeah, and you looking at me like that and practically purring like a cat wasn’t anything either, huh?” 

You felt your stomach flutter: Jimin and you were mostly a very agreeable couple, no fights, no disagreements. He was just too sweet for that. But when he did get annoyed, his Busan accent would come right back up, trickling through every sentence he spoke. Compared to his everyday intonation, his hometown dialect came out harsh and scary, and it drove you absolutely insane. And that alone had you picking fights with him whenever you were feeling extra needy. 

You gave him an innocent little smile, “My mistake.” 

Jimin let out a scoff, his eyes dark and dangerous now.

“A mistake, yah?”

He sank his teeth into the flesh above your collarbone, and you let out a little yelp. 

“Jimin–” you whined, bringing your body closer to his instinctively, before your hand came up to push him off, the realization that you were still just in an elevator suddenly making you feel flustered. 

“What, now you’re shy, hm?” Jimin’s satoori bled thick in every word, the anger poisoning his tone. “What, you only like to be a slut when you’re hidden under a tablecloth, huh?” 

Jimin continued devouring your neck, sucking and nibbling until you were certain that there was a fresh, red, purple bruise, marking you as his own. You whined in response, the slight snap of your skin from being released by his jaw making you flinch. 

“Now that this,” Jimin’s hand came up to grip your neck firmly, his thumb pressing into the bruise he had just left, “is on full display on your pretty body, you want to hide away from me?” 

You shied away from his gaze, turning your face away to the side, your cheeks already flushed at the way he handled you. With his hand still on your neck, he lifted his finger to force your chin back towards him, his eyes still piercing through you.

“Look at me when I talk to you.” 

Jimin’s hand was still wrapped tightly around your throat, pressing into the sides of the column just enough for you to see stars. You couldn’t help but let out a whiny breath as he pulled you into him like a ragdoll, smashing his lips against yours feverishly once again. He consumed you through your mouth, drawing the air from your lungs and replacing it with only him. Once you were gasping for breath, he pulled you off of him by the neck, pinning you so easily with his one hand.

He took a step towards you, guiding you back like a couple’s dance until your back hit the wall of the elevator, the little handrail pressing coldly into the thin fabric of your dress just above your bum. You let out a soft whimper at his roughness with you, and his eyes danced across your face hungrily before bringing you back to his mouth. His other hand tugged on the hem of your dress, before it disappeared under the black fabric of your dress. 

Your eyes widened as his fingers roamed over the fabric of your underwear, already clinging desperately against your warm, wet heat. 

“Oh, you’re already a mess.” 

Jimin smiled, his eyes crinkling into half moons as he laughed at you. Suddenly, you felt embarrassed in the tiny enclosed space of the elevator with him. Jimin continued to massage his middle and ring fingers against your core, letting the fabric cling to your skin, parting your folds with each bend of his wrist.

“Jimin,” you whispered, your hand coming up to grip his wrist as he moved his fingers against your wet underwear.

“What? This isn’t what you wanted? Then what was all that back at the restaurant for, hm? Don’t tell me you’re backing out now.” Jimin snickered at you, his voice low and gravelly as he mused at how desperate you already were for him. 

His slender finger looped into the stretch of your fabric before tugging it aside. The cool air of the elevator suddenly reminded you how very much in public you two were. Your hand came up against to tug on his wrist, a weak attempt at getting him to stop. Jimin smacked your hand away with a scoff before slipping his middle and ring fingers into the depths of your aching heat. 

“Oh–” you whimpered at the curl of his fingers against your desperate walls. He kept your head dropped forward, the intensity of his touch already stirring up a storm in your core as he beckoned you closer to him with each curl of his fingers inside you. 

“Yeah, you like being touched like this in an elevator, dirty girl?” he chuckled, his eyes still smiling and cocky as he watched you start to lose any semblance of self-control under his spell. 

“Ye-yeah,” you moaned, bucking your hips into his hand, encouraging him to continue. “Whatever you want, baby.” 

“That’s right,” he groaned into your lips. “Whatever I want.” 

He continued curling his fingers into you, pumping and knocking your sensitive spot with every beck and call. He kept your legs pinned open with his knee, slotted between your thighs, holding you open as your dress only barely hid what was happening. 

No, that was too generous. The way Jimin had you falling apart in his hands, the whimpers and yelps that fell from your lips: everyone with eyes and ears could look at you two and know exactly what was going on. 

“Ji-min–” you trembled, your walls starting to flutter uncontrollably at how well he was working you. “I–I want to–cum on your fingers. Please.” 

He let out a low snicker. 

“So horny and desperate already, honey? You’re so easy.” 

He added his thumb into the equation, using the pad of his thumb to gently stimulate your clit as he kept his other two fingers buried inside your dripping cunt. He kept his forehead pressed against yours, not kissing you, not touching you, but just watching how well his fingers made you react, the moans he was milking out of you with every torturous thrust of his hand against you. 

“Pl-please,” you stuttered, your orgasm peeking over the horizon already as your boyfriend held you open on his thigh against the wall.

Jimin kept his tongue poking in his cheek, the cocky grin permanently affixed to his pretty face as you were a trembling, pouting mess. You could tell he was laughing at you.

“Such a dirty girl, hm, my love?” he whispered against your mouth. “Begging for an orgasm while–” he turned his head away from you and nodded up towards the blinking red light of the security camera in the corner. “–You’re on perfect display.”

Your eyes widened at the realization that you were being recorded, that somewhere, in this complex, there was at least one security guard watching you fall apart on your famous boyfriend’s hand. Your cheeks burned intensely, your head falling forward against Jimin’s chest. He laughed at your reaction, his hand still not relenting. 

“You didn’t think we were doing this in perfect privacy, were you?” He sneered. “Not after that trick you tried to pull in the restaurant, baby. You don’t deserve to be hidden away tonight.” 

The coil in your stomach was impossibly tight, the buildup making every limb go rigid at how desperately you were craving release. Jimin sensed how close you were and pressed his lips firmly against yours, letting his tongue explore the inside of your mouth, muffling every pathetic whimper that fell from your mouth. 

“You wanna cum on my fingers, is that it, jagiya?” he murmured into your mouth, smiling between wet, sloppy kisses as he gave you a moment each time to breathe. “Wanna make a mess on your boyfriend’s hand while the security team watches you?” 

You nodded your head fervently, bucking your hips up into his hand, his thumb still pressed perfectly into your clit as he rubbed firm circles against you, stimulating you in a way that made you want to cry. You were a goner now: the pleasure invading your thoughts and wiping out any remaining sense of logic.

Jimin watched you with intense eyes as you arched your back, your mouth fell open into an ‘O’, and your eyes began to flutter shut. You were on edge. He kissed you one more time before pulling away with a wet, loud pop. He came impossibly close to your ear, his warm breath hammering against your eardrum.

“Too bad it isn’t up to you tonight.” 

And with that, suddenly, all your stimulation and touch disappeared. He pulled his fingers out of you in one swift motion, the teetering of your climax suddenly crashing down, the pulsing twitch of your clit left abandoned in the cool metal room. 

“No–no–please,” you sobbed, the tension in your stomach still very uncomfortably present. You reached up to grip his hand and pull him closer, your lips flushed and swollen. “Jimin, please, I’m sorry–”

“Far too late for that.” Jimin caught your hand before you could pull him closer, pinning your wrist against the cold metal wall. 

“Please, baby, I want–fuck–I’m so close,” you cried, your eyes wide and begging as your boyfriend smiled at his own satisfaction of seeing you fall apart at his touch. He ignored you with a smirk, licking and sucking his own fingers clean.

“Such a delicious little slut for me,” he hummed as he relished in your taste that dripped from his digits, his eyes closing for a moment as he drank you off his own hand.

He took a step away from you, his body disconnecting itself from yours entirely, before he ran a hand through his hair, pushing his blonde bangs out of his eyes. 

“Get on your knees.” 

You blinked at him before glancing back up to the camera in the corner.

“Jimin…the ca–” 

“I said get on your fucking knees, Y/N.” His tone was sharp, demanding, and immediately, you understood what you had gotten yourself into. The pierce of his tone went immediately to your core, and your pussy clenched desperately at the nothingness inside.

With a low whine, you slowly dropped yourself to your knees, still staring at the camera lens in the corner. The floor of the elevator was cold against your bare knees, and you leaned yourself back onto your heels, your head leaning against the elevator wall. Jimin took a step towards you, unbuckling his belt with one hand as he kept his other hand on top of your head, petting your hair and holding you down as if you were his very own pet. 

“Hands on the railing.” His eyes were dark and blown out impossibly wide now, the edges of his iris almost completely hidden by his lust, by his intense pleasure in being in control, owning you like this.

You obeyed him with a nod and reached up above your head to grip the handrail with both hands like you were lifting a bar at the gym. You let your arms dangle as you held the handrail, hungry for Jimin to do to you what he wanted. He unzipped his trousers, the clasp falling open with the force of his hard-on threatening to poke through the fabric. 

Jimin took himself in his hand now, pumping himself slowly at your eye level as you watched him with wide, gleaming eyes. His tip was glistening in the dim fluorescent light, his precum dripping out of his flushed slit like he had been holding himself back for a while. You felt your mouth water as he poked the tip of his cock against your lips, tapping his flushed, warm head gently but possessively against your face as he smirked at you. 

“You begged for my attention all fucking night, now you got it.” And then he parted your lips forcefully, splitting your mouth open with his heavy, thick cock. 

You gasped, letting him slide all the way into your mouth until he hit the back of your throat, the fullness of your mouth almost making you choke. He stayed there for a moment, his eyes peering down at you. His smile was completely gone from his face and replaced by his dark, lustful glare. He owned you now, and he wanted you to know it.

With one hand behind your head, he brought his other hand to your jaw, holding your mouth open for him as he began to fuck your mouth. The push of his cock against your throat made you gag, the contraction of your throat around him coaxing a low groan out of his mouth. 

“Fuck, baby, that’s it,” he hissed as he rutted his hips into your face. “Let me fuck this pretty face as she deserves.” 

Your hands were still wrapped around the railing over your head, obeying him so sweetly as he rocked his cock deeper into your throat, fucking your hole like you were only his to use. His V-line peeked out from under his untucked dress shirt, flexing with every thrust. The sight of him above you like this was driving you crazy, and you felt your own arousal start to drip down your leg. Your core was still desperate for release, but you were too drunk off what was happening to you to notice that now. 

You felt yourself start to choke on his length as he sheathed himself completely inside your throat, and your hand released from the handrail to nudge him off of you, begging for air. Within a second, Jimin caught your wrist, bringing it back to the handrail.

“Did I fucking say you could let go? Keep your hands up before I do something about it,” he hissed. His voice was husky, rough with his own arousal as he forced you to grab the handrail again. 

Your hands returned to their rightful spot on the handrail, and Jimin’s hand returned to the back of your head, using the force of his hand and his hips to drive his cock deeper and more forcefully into your mouth. Your eyes were streaming with tears now, every whimper that fell from your mouth getting drowned out and muffled against his length. 

He caught a glimpse of how prettily you were crying, and Jimin smirked, tongue in his cheek, before nodding his head back towards the corner.

"Look at you," he growled. “Getting your face fucking ruined in an elevator on camera.” 

Fat tears rolled down your face now, your cheeks flushed at the thought of someone else seeing you like this. Jimin continued holding you open for him, your mouth full of saliva and his own fluids, nearly drowning you with the mess in your mouth. Your knuckles were white as you held on for dear life to the handrail, balancing yourself as your boyfriend had you pinned between the wall and his groin. 

“Fuck, you’re going to make me cum with this pretty mouth,” he hissed. “You wanna take my load, don’t you, baby?” 

You nodded the best that you could with how firmly he gripped you, trapping you against the wall. Jimin licked his lower lip, his mouth falling open into a panting smile, before he gave you a wink.

His cock knocked back into your throat a few more times before he suddenly pulled himself out. You spluttered for air, gasping as he continued jerking himself off at your eye level. You leaned your head back towards him with an open mouth, begging to taste him again.

“Jimin, baby, let me swallow–” 

But Jimin’s hand came down to grip you by the neck again, pinning you in place, and you silenced yourself immediately.

“Only good girls get what they want.” 

He took a step away from your begging mouth, pumping himself a few times before he released onto your skin. His other hand held you roughly by the jaw as he painted his climax across your nose, lips, cheeks, and chin, every erotic spurt of his seed on your face running down your face so lewdly.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned as he milked himself through his high. “Take it all over your pretty face. Show the world who owns you.” 

You blinked up at him, your cheeks wet from tears and saliva, so ruined and on your knees at your boyfriend’s feet. His chest was heaving rapidly as he took you in, before tilting your head to face the camera, as if showing off his prize.

“All mine,” he tutted as he showed you off to the lens. You squeezed your eyes shut in embarrassment, your face messy and wet, and Jimin released your jaw with a lazy fling of his fingers.

“Stand up,” he commanded, his eyes still clouded. You slowly climbed to your feet with the help of his hand, his eyes still piercing through you unchanged. The evidence of his pleasure was still dripping off your chin and lips, his ownership signed on your face in white ink. 

Jimin reached into his inside jacket pocket, tugging out a little packet of tissues. With one hand gripped firmly on your jaw, he held you possessively as he wiped your face clean, a small cocky smile burning into his face. 

“My pretty girl,” he hummed as he cleaned you up like you were his precious little girl, before balling up the tissue and shoving it in his pocket. 

Without another thought, he pressed the open button on the wall, the doors sliding open on the parking level with an inconspicuous ding. You trailed behind him as he tugged you forward, his hand over yours as you walked back to the car. 

“I’ll think about giving you an orgasm of your own if you’re a good girl until we get home,” he hummed as he ran a hand through his hair, his elegant, public persona briefly returning as he guided you through the parking lot.

“Jimin, what if–the security footage,” you whispered, concern in your tone. 

“Don’t worry about it. Jungkook’s pulled something like this before. Legal team had the whole thing shut down before anyone ever found out. We’re good,” He murmured. 

As you two approached the car, he gave you a little smack on the bum before whispering in your ear. 

“But a part of you would like that footage to get leaked, wouldn’t you, baby?” 

════════

i know that crazy attitude and temper is still in there somewhere

His absolute favorite way to start the day is waking you up with his head between your thighs. Gently parting your legs in the soft morning light and going down on you until you're a trembling, gasping mess before you've even had coffee. He loves the taste of you mixed with sleep.

Yoongi loves eating you out, hes trained for this. He will take u in any position— on his knees, sitting on his face, from behind— he will eat it, just pls tell him.

He has a thing for watching you come on his cock, then pulling out immediately after and finishing all over your stomach or tits. He likes to think of it as a territory marking. and he'll do it with this possessive, dizzy look in his eyes, moaning your name as he stripes your skin with his cum.

He loves it when you're messy. If you're on top and you ride him hard, he'll grip your hips and growl, “That's it, make a mess for me. Get your pretty pussy all messy on my dick.” He gets off on the visual and the slick, wet sounds.

Praise is filthy in his mouth. It's never just “you're pretty.” It's “Look at you, taking my cock so well. Such a good fucking girl for me, aren't you? Perfect little thing.” He says it right against your ear, voice gravelly and low.

But he flips to degradation so smoothly it makes your head spin. One moment it's “good girl” the next, his hand is tight in your hair, pulling just enough to sting as he thrusts up into you. “Just a greedy little thing, aren't you? Can't get enough. You'd take it all day, wouldn't you? My used-up girl.”

He's a big fan of overstimulation. When you're oversensitive and shaking after coming, he won't stop. He'll hold you down, pinning your hips, and keep thrusting, whispering, “One more, come on. I know you can give me one more. Squeeze my cock again with that tight little cunt.”

He loves making you say what you want in the dirtiest terms. He'll have you pinned, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit, and he'll ask, “What does my girl need? Use your words.” And if you mumble it, he'll stop. “Louder. Tell me you need my cock in your slutty little pussy.”

He has a praise kink for himself too, but only from you. When he's feeling subby and needy, he'll lay his forehead on yours and guide your hand to his cheek. “Tell me Im doing good,” he'll whine, moving his hips so slowly into your wet pussy. And you'll stroke his cheek and whisper all the filthy things hes doing to you, praising him for how hard hes fucking you, how deep hes going inside of you. He comes hard just from hearing it, his thrusts loses rhythm, whimpering mess.

He has a thing for your underwear. He'll pick out what he wants you to wear, the laciest, most delicate things, just so he can tear them off you later. Or sometimes he'll just push them aside instead, fucking you through the fabric until it's soaked.

The ultimate for him is when you're so fucked-out you can't move, and he has to take care of you. He'll bring you water, feed you bits of food, and tuck the blankets around you, all while wearing that soft, sleepy smile. You're his beautiful, well-used mess.

He gets a thrill from you using him for your pleasure. On days when he's more submissive, he'll tell you, “Just ride me, use my cock until you're satisfied. Don't worry about me.” And he'll lie there, hands gripping the sheets tight, watching you take what you need from him, which in turn drives him wild.

Yoongi has a borderline obsession with u calling him by his name. He needs u to say Yoongi, If you're being quiet, he'll slow his thrusts to an agonizing grind, his forehead against yours, and rasp, “Say it. I need to hear it.” And when you finally break, whimpering his name, it unleashes something feral in him. His rhythm turns punishing, his grip bruising, his eyes black with a possessive high. “Again,” he demands, voice shredded. “Louder. Let the whole neighborhood know who's fucking you this good.” He'll fuck you through your climax, chanting “Say my name, keep moaning my name” until you're sobbing it, a broken mantra against his hot mouth. But it's the quiet times that really gets him—your sleepy morning mumble or a soft sigh during a cuddle—that makes his chest feel tight. He collects every time you say it. To him, from your lips, it's proof he's yours. ㅤ♡ྀི

A/N: this is an apology for not posting in a while lmfao, i wanted to post sfw and nsfw in same post bcuz hes just so gentle and hot, I couldn’t just show his filthy side.

Hope yall enjoyed!!

Your bedroom looks exactly the way you had left it six months ago — save for the layer of dust that had accumulated since your departure. The knick-knacks you hadn't bothered with in the midst of the July heat, lay scattered across your old dresser, desk and bookshelf. A couple of stacked books, a plant that your mother was surely watering, and the Walkman your father had gotten you a few years back. 

There was something so sickeningly nostalgic about standing in the center of the room you had grown up in. How one glance toward the green bedsheets with dotted flowers could make you feel like a kid all over again. 

The duffel bag slung over your shoulder sits heavier than it had upon your arrival at Mr. and Mrs. Jeon's house. Perhaps it was the cookies Ye-seo had stuffed in there before your departure, or maybe it was simply the weight of Jungkook's silence as he drove you to the train station this morning. 

You let it drop to the floor with a thud, leaving it behind as you approach the bed. Your knees buckle and then they hit the mattress, your body toppling forward as your face buries in the pillow that still holds memories of childhood. Your eyes flutter and you find comfort in the darkness behind closed lids. 

There's an uneven, soft lump, pressing against your ribs. Reaching a half-hearted hand under yourself, you frown when coming into contact with familiar, fuzzy leg. You pull the teddy out from beneath you, huffing out a short breath when its sun-bleached head lolls forward. 

Your dad had named him Tater, said that his yellow hue and lumpy stomach made him resemble that of a potato. You'd cried on the stuffed toy's behalf at first, at least until your mom managed to console both you and your teddy — whose feelings were naturally hurt. 

His floppy arms are easily manipulated under your fingers and you bend one of them into a small wave. "Hey there," you hum, and Tater claps enthusiastically. Leaning forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead, you take a moment to inhale the different scents that inhabit him. Like that of the funky-looking tapestry, paint being left out to dry, the bitter traces of your father's cigarettes and something sweet. 

Despite the delicious food you'd been eating at Mr. and Mrs. Jeon's house, there was still a gaping hole inside your stomach. Jungkook had been avoiding you ever since yesterday morning — when the movie ended and your interlocked pinkies became nothing but a sacred memory. 

You don't know what had changed, but something had. He wouldn't look at you during mealtime, engaging in conversation only when his father forced him to. Mrs. Jeon had worn a solemn expression almost all day but you couldn't quite figure out what had been the cause. 

Cassian was the only one who'd seemed just as clueless as you. Though he was at least able to enjoy himself. You think that perhaps it had to do with you — had your presence been unwanted after all? Had you said something out of line without even knowing it? 

There's a quiet knock to your bedroom door and it pulls you back from the edge of the cliff that had become your mind as of late. "Come in," you call, rolling onto your back as you stare up at the ceiling. 

You already know that it was your mom who had come. Dad never knocked, and he always found a way to step on all the creaks when crossing the wooden floorboards. Your mom is silent, almost eerily so, as she approaches you where you lay sprawled out on top of the covers. 

"I thought I'd give you some time to settle in," she says when taking a seat on the edge of your bed. The mattress dips under her weight and the sight of her like this, instantly transports you back to a time long ago. "Your dad is in the kitchen making lunch, as per my demand." 

The corner of your lip twitches as you nod, "Scrambled eggs?" 

Your mom sighs, "The only thing he knows how to make without setting something on fire." 

You both giggle at that. Your father's inability to cook was something that had led to many pizza nights — especially when your mother worked late and he was assigned with the task of dinner. 

"She won't find out if we're sneaky about it," he would say as you hurried down to the local pizzeria just a few blocks from your house. Of course, she did always catch on, though she said nothing when finding both you and your dad passed out on the couch with the unfinished box still on the coffee table. 

In the distance you could hear the tell-tale clinking and sizzling of a pan, signaling that your father was indeed trying his best to navigate the kitchen in his wife's absence. 

"I see you found Tater," your mom nods toward the plushie you still cradle in both hands, a fond look in her eyes, "I'm starting to think I should write him into my will." 

You scoff, "No. But I'm writing him into mine." 

The two of you share another laugh at that before a comfortable silence settles between you. Things like that were easy with your mom. She asked just the right amount of questions, left out the ones she knew you wouldn't want to answer. You study her through the corner of your eye, trying to force the sudden lump in your throat back down. 

You had deprived yourself of her comforting presence for six months now. The phone calls only did so much to pick up her soothing voice over the static — and now that you were here, on the same bed where she had lulled you to sleep so many times before — three days no longer felt like enough. 

"That's a beautiful necklace," she muses, clearly having noticed the way your eyes glossed over with unshed tears but knowing better than to address them. Instead, she tilts her chin in the direction of the golden heart that rests over your collarbone. 

Following her gaze, you crane your neck to see it better. "Oh," the exhale feels like it's been punched from your lungs and you reach a finger up to trace the pendant. "Yeah, it is," you hesitate before adding, "It was a gift." 

Your mother's expression flickers with surprise as she leans forward, inspecting the piece of jewelry closely. "Must have been from someone special then," she says, but there's no teasing lilt to her voice — just raw honesty. It makes your chest contract even harder. 

Yes. Jungkook was special. Your eyes find their way back to the golden heart, it shines softly under the sunlight that seeps through your window. Yet, the longer you regard the piece, the deeper the crease between your brows become. Were you special to him? 

You glance toward the sneakers by your door, the ones he'd gotten you, the ones you had worn with pride throughout all of Christmas day as you played with Cassian in the snow. Then back to the necklace, the one you had tucked under the collar of your shirt when Mrs. Jeon had come to close to asking, the one you only let yourself behold when no one else was around. 

The moment in the kitchen had felt romantic, as it always did when you and Jungkook were alone. But that was the thing wasn't it? The sneakers were fine — but the necklace too much to ever be given to you in front of his family. His gesture becomes tainted by the realization that it could not exist outside the bounds of your privacy. 

"Yes," you whisper when letting the necklace fall back against your skin, "Someone special." 

Special. But not special enough to be shown off in front of the people he loves most. 

There was this pre-established routine at the round table in your parents' tiny kitchen. The kind that couldn't be found in the Jeon estate where you had shared so many of your meals. No, this came from years of coexistence. Where you had learned that your mom liked her coffee steaming hot with only a dollop's worth of milk. Or that your dad had this peculiar habit of layering the salt on the back of his hand before sprinkling it over his food. 

It was a privilege, to know someone so intimately, to no longer need words when you communicate. Your parents do it all the time, a kiss on the cheek as your mother hands your father his mug, or him tucking a stray hair from her face when she brings her fork to her mouth. 

The two of them had met by chance, really. Three years worth of college, all in pretty much the same classes with neither of them paying the other any mind. Had it not been for that drunken night — spent at the same graduation party in 66' — you might have never came to be. 

A leap of faith is what your mother calls it. She would often remind you to thank your father for your life, for she had been ready to give the pregnancy up as soon as she found out. It was dad who convinced her to give him a shot and go out with him. 

So in a way, you suppose you watched your parents fall in love, all the way from the beginning. You were gap-tooth and a proud first grader when your father proposed. You were 4'11 in a sheer, pink dress on their wedding. You were a lousy teenager when you celebrated their fifth anniversary with a trip to Egypt. 

Nearly twenty-one years later and you were still watching them get hopelessly lost in each other's eyes. 

Your dad nudges the massive plate of scrambled eggs in your direction, "Figured you'd be hungry after the long journey, kiddo," he says between mouthfuls when you raise him a brow. 

"It's a two-hour train ride, honey," your mom sighs when snatching a slice of toasted bread for herself, to which the former grumbles under his breath as he shovels another forkful past his lips. 

You sip on your orange juice, fingers tapping against the rim of your glass as you gaze out across the rather crammed kitchen. The fridge was covered in magnets, most of them bought from various stores in the area, though some souvenirs from the trips you would splurge on every so seldom. 

Lunch consists of small talk for the most part. Details and funny stories about your parents' recent trip, and a bunch of apologies for not being able to bring you along — to which you simply shook your head. "I had a lot of school work anyway," you say when setting your glass down once more.

"Still, we really wanted to bring you along but the—"

Your dad is cut off by a sharp elbow to his ribs, delivered by your mom who hisses a 'quiet' under her breath. Confused, you sit up a little straighter. The two of them were not people to keep secrets, your twenty years by their side had taught you that much. 

But before you get the chance to question your father's odd behavior, your mother cuts in. "So, how has school been?" she leans forward in her seat, ignoring her husband who was rubbing his wounded side with a grimace. "Last we spoke you mentioned a big exam, how was it?"

Blinking a few times, you recall the late evening where you had anxiously informed your mother of the important examination. What you hadn't told her about, was the very hands-on lesson with Jungkook on your couch that had followed. The heat of the memory alone makes his aloof demeanor yesterday feel all the colder.

"It went good," you hum, the few remains of eggs and toast on your plate now forgotten about. 

Your dad finally recovers from his wife's brutal hit as he, too, joins in on the conversation. "Do you have anyone to practice with? Any classmates?" he asks as he reaches for his coffee mug, "Daehyun? He seemed like a nice guy." 

Nodding, you give him a small smile, "Yes, Dae is nice. We study together." 

"You should bring him around sometime," he then says as he peers down into his cup, "It'd be nice to put a face to the guy who—" 

"Dad," you silence him with a sharp flick of your tongue, already sensing which road he was headed down. "Me and Daehyun are friends." Your father had a habit of believing each and every man you interacted with to be a potential suitor — so it was better to shut the idea down as quickly as possible. 

"Besides," you then add with a tiny grin, "He likes boys." 

The brows on his forehead raise a little higher at that and your father hums to himself. "Yes," he murmurs against the rim of his cup as he brings it up for another sip, "I've heard that's a thing."

On his right, your mother sends him a glare that could cut steel and he clears his throat into his coffee, "Not that there's anything wrong with it of course!" 

Your mom rolls her eyes, wafting a hand in his direction like she was batting away a fly. Then she turns back to you, leaning across the table as much as it allowed. "You could still bring him over as a friend. I would love to meet him." 

Giving her a nonverbal agreement, you sink back in your chair slightly. The idea of introducing Daehyun to your parents wasn't something you'd toyed with before — but you figured that there would be no harm in doing so. 

"How about work, how's it looking for you over there in the big city?" Your dad asks when setting his mug down. 

While your parents had been supportive of the move and your willingness to chase your dreams, the financial aspect still worried them. You didn't want to burden them even further by asking for help, determined to make it on your own, even if it meant working yourself to the bone. 

"Well," you shrug, "I told you guys I quit at the restaurant, right?" They both hum and you draw in a long breath. "I make a lot more being a nanny for the children, besides, I've been entrusted with a lot more responsibilities." It wasn't a lie — it wasn't the truth either. Your relationship to Jungkook was complicated at best, and that was without taking yesterday into account. 

Your father seems content to hear that, "I see. And the kids, they're nice?" 

Nodding enthusiastically, you say, "They're lovely, I would love for you to meet them someday." The thought of possibly introducing the children to your parents had never actually crossed your mind. But the more you try to picture the four of them together, the faster your heart beats. 

At least until Jungkook finds his way into the frame. You can see him so clearly. In his dress pants and button ups. With his hair styled to perfection and a face of stoicism. You imagine him next to your mom and dad. What would they think of him? What would he think of them? 

"Their father raises them on his own, yes?" Your mom suddenly asks, ripping you from your momentary train of thought. Her expression doesn't falter when you tell her yes, but her brows do furrow, if only slightly. "He's alright? Treats you well I hope?" 

You hum, "More than well." 

Her and your dad share a lingering glance that makes you sigh. "He's a nice man," you tell them with certainty — refusing to let the mark of Christmas Day show as you send them a faint smile. 

The tension in your mom's shoulders ease up as she sits back in her chair. "I'm sure he is," she hesitates, "It's just— I want you to be safe. The world is full of dangerous people and I simply want my daughter to be alright." 

"Well Jungkook is not like that." You're unable to hide the defensiveness as it creeps into your voice — you're sure they both pick up on it. "There's nothing to worry about," you add after heaving another breath. 

It's quiet for a while where neither of your parents make an attempt to say something. You deemed lunch to be over and rather than waiting for them to get a move on, you instead start collecting the unfinished plates of food — feeling your mother's eyes on you as you do. 

It's your dad who takes it upon himself to break the silence. "Alright then," he leans back in his seat, slapping both hands onto the round table, the way he always would when he had something to announce. 

You pause, just enough to raise him a brow, but he doesn't seem to take note of it as he instead says: "Why don't we head to the garage?" Next to him, your mom mouths something under her breath but her husband simply shakes his head as he gives her shoulder a pat. 

"The garage?" you finally bring yourself to ask, hovering just short of grabbing his plate to stack it onto the others, "What for?" 

To that he simply grins, "For your Christmas present of course."

"Is all of this really necessary?" 

With your mother's hands resting over your eyes it was impossible to make out anything at all as they guide you down the hall. "I'm not a kid anymore," you remind them, but your parents are too busy biting back fits of giggles that had you wondering if perhaps you should be asking them that question instead. 

"Careful now," your dad says when pushing a door open, "Lift your feet." 

Doing as you're told, you step over the threshold without much difficulty. The garage is a lot colder than the rest of the house, the familiar smell that had always been a secret like of yours, infiltrating your senses immediately. "Can I open them yet?" The extreme measures they were going to actually excited you, though you wouldn't give either of them the satisfaction of knowing that. 

"Just a second!" comes your father's voice from somewhere in the distance. You can hear him knocking a few supplies over, the action followed by a few muttered curses as your mother's fingers flex across your face. 

He returns to your side a moment later, breath fanning across your shoulder. "Okay," he exhales, "Show her, honey." 

The bright light is the first thing that hits you as your mom's hands fall away from your eyes. You squint, blinking rapidly as you adjust to your new surroundings. At first nothing sticks out. The old cans of paint, their unopened lids a tribute to your dad's abandoned idea of sprucing up the house. The packages of soil that your mom used to fill the flower beds in the front yard with. 

But then your gaze lands on the car — not the old truck that had taken you everywhere as a child — no, an actual car. With a steel-grey surface, new tires and clear, polished windows. "What is—" you trail off, your attention lingering by the red bow that was tied to the windshield-wipers. 

"Your father and I thought you could use something to get back and forth from school a little easier," your mom explains with a shy smile, "We know it's a hassle for your to commute everyday." 

Too stunned to even form proper sentences, you stare at the vehicle in awe. This was yours? The model is certainly an upgrade from the old, green pick-up that had been in your family for as long as you could remember, and it had undoubtedly stretched their budget to its limits. "When did you…?" 

"Had to pick it up three hours away," your father shrugs, "But it was worth the drive." 

You pause, the pieces slowly clicking into place. "The trip… But I thought you were going on a Christmas vacation?" A twinge of guilt sparks through your chest at the thought of them sacrificing the holidays for this and your throat thickens when you meet your mom's eyes. 

"We still went on the trip," she says, "With an additional detour of course." After a pause she adds, "Merry Christmas—" 

The words have barely left her lips as you come crashing into her, wrapping her in a tight embrace. "Thank you," you whisper against her shoulder, unable to express your gratitude any better than this. 

Your father's hand is warm and gentle on your back as he joins in on the hug. "I take it as a success then?" he says, and you can practically hear his grin. All you can do is fight back the tears steadily building as you swallow down a pathetic sob, nodding weakly as you turn to let his arms envelop you. 

When you pull back enough to wipe the corner of your eye, you glance toward the car once more. "How did you afford this?" you ask, already frowning as you tried to count the costs for yourself, estimating staggering amounts and multiple zeroes that made you feel faint. 

"We've been saving up," your mom says. 

"Ever since you first left," you dad adds with a proud tilt of his head. 

"And I've been picking up a few extra shifts at the store," she hums. 

Your gaze jumps between them both, bottom lip already trembling again despite your attempts to calm yourself down just moments ago. "You really didn't have to," you murmur, "I mean— I'm fine taking the bus. You should be spending your money on yourself, not me!" 

But your father is already shoving the keys into your palm, closing your fist around them before pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Only the best for our girl," he gestures toward the car, "Come on, won't you give it a spin?" 

You hesitate for a second, peering over at the vehicle that was now proudly yours. Then you smile, "Yeah, I want to try it." Giving your parents one quick peck on their cheeks, you let them pull you back into their arms a second time. "I love you," the confession is muffled against the press of bodies, though you know they heard it. 

Leaving home a second time was almost harder than the first. You thought that by now you would have it easier saying goodbye to your parents but the brief three-day stay had made you realize just how much you truly missed them. The hugs and whispered endearments go on for far longer than they should — making your departure all the more painful. 

After a long thirty minutes where the three of you all shed a couple of tears — something your dad would never admit to — you pull out of the driveway. 

The journey back would take you less than two hours but it was still enough time for you to sit alone with your thoughts for the first time since Christmas Day. And as your parent's house disappears in the rear view mirror, your mother and father's waving figures growing smaller and smaller until you could no longer see them, your mind finds its way back to what awaits you when returning to your apartment. 

You and Jungkook hadn't been in touch since he'd dropped you off at the station that morning. The air had been crisp, the last snow settling over the ground, a few flakes falling into his hair as he got out of the car to walk you to the platform. A silly and stupid part of you had hoped he would kiss you, seize the rare moment of privacy after spending two days in his parents house and make good on his words from that night in the kitchen. 

But Jungkook had simply nodded a quiet farewell when your train arrived. And he'd taken his leave before you even rolled out of the station. 

Your fingers drum anxiously against the wheel as you drive down the lonesome road. It cuts through the forest, with tall pines crowding you both left and right. You still had a good couple of hours on your side before nightfall, making you relax as you ease up on the gas. No broadcast channel reached the car's radio out here and you were left to fill the silence on your own. 

Jungkook inhabits most, if not all, of your thoughts. You replay Christmas Day over and over in your head. The soft caress of his pinky against yours as you sat on the couch, a stark difference to the cold shoulder he gave you during the rest of your stay. 

Brushing pasting you on the stairs when you were headed up and he down. Both Mr. and Mrs. Jeon avoiding any kind of conversation with him during breakfast and dinner. Excusing himself to his room every couple of hours for 'work purposes' despite the holiday. 

In the midst of it all you had tried to appear composed, like every subtle, non-verbal rejection didn't cut deeper than any blade. And by the time he dropped you off at the station, suppose you had felt some kind of relief at the three days of distance ahead of you. 

You groan, stealing a glance at the necklace you wear in one of the side mirrors. Returning meant facing where you left off last and you weren't sure how that was to be done. However, with only a few days to spare until the new year there was a good chance he wouldn't ring you in to watch the children at all, thus postponing your inevitable conversation a while longer. 

The idea comforts you enough to make the rest of your drive home.

Jungkook did not in fact, not wait, and his call came the very next day, giving you less than twenty-four hours to settle in back at your apartment after being away for almost an entire week. You were going through the pile of mail that had been shoved through the hatch in your door when the sound of your landline came tumbling down the hall. 

You hadn't meant for the letters to slip through your fingers but they had anyway, and on quiet feet you'd approached your desk — picking up the phone with a final exhale. 

The bruising static assaults your ears for a long moment. You should probably have said something by now, but words weren't coming. Once you've counted five long breaths does he finally speak: 

"Are you in the middle of something? 

His voice is too calm and for a second you almost forget how things had ended on Christmas Day — had it not been for the detached edge to it. You glance toward the abandoned mail by the front door, "No." 

Jungkook sighs, he did not usually take this long to get his point across. His silence unnerved you slightly. "I need to swing by the office," he says before adding, "Just for an hour or two." The unspoken requests sits between you for a moment. You knew that he would be okay with you making up an excuse about not having time, perhaps he even expects you to.

"I can stop by," but then again, things very came easy for you, "Give me twenty minuets." 

There's an exhale on the other end of the line, though you can't tell if he was relieved or simply acknowledging your agreement. "Alright," is all he says before the call cuts and your landline goes back to static. 

That was one of the shortest conversations the two of you had ever held. 

You had gotten well accustomed to the comforts of your new car by this point, making the ten minute drive to Jungkook's place feel like a breeze compared to the alternative of the bus. You distract yourself with music, humming along to whatever the local broadcast station was playing as your eyes gaze across the road. 

But even the pop songs soon became background noise and by the time you reached the large house and killed the engine, you had decided that you would try to talk to him about what had been on your mind for the past couple of days. 

"Can we talk—" 

"I think it's a good idea if you and me have a conversation—" 

Each line makes you shake your head. Sitting behind the wheel, you stare at the three-story estate through the windshield. Its white concrete walls felt less like a peace offering and more like an impending doom. Ridiculous really. The windows hold no movement, not even a flicker of a curtain, like it too, was waiting for something. 

To hell with it, you think as you swing the car door open and step out. There was no point in prolonging the inevitable, you would have to face him eventually. And so you make your way to the front door, up the three stone steps before ringing the bell, just like you had so many times before. 

Even with its bright, beige walls and glowing chandelier — the Jeon house fails to capture the warmth that had come so easy back at your parents'. It had been more than a week since you last set foot here, that was the longest you'd ever been parted from the high ceilings and soft carpets since first taking on the position — and in that time you had managed to forget just how hollow this place could feel. 

Jungkook didn't say much when he opened the door for you. He was already dressed for work. Gone were the soft sweaters he'd worn during the holidays, the smile you would catch him trying to hide or the way his eyes lingered on yours when no one else was looking. 

The man in front of you today is a shell of himself. Stripped down until only the firm line of his jaw and his furrowed brows remain. He takes your coat from you without a word, hanging it up alongside the children's with methodical care. You're wearing the shoes he got you but he doesn't glance at them once. 

"Will you be heading out soon?" you ask when slipping the sneakers off your feet. 

He nods, "Just need to get some paperwork from my study." He doesn't wait for you to say anything else, turning on his heel before you can even heave your next breath as he heads toward the stairs. 

It was then you noticed that neither Cassian nor Rayne had made an appearance. The silence which had always been a custom in this house now felt oppressive. You missed the youngest's laughter, even his sister's remarks and the sound of her flipping pages in whatever book she read. And in front of you, Jungkook has almost disappeared from view entirely. 

"Wait—!" you scramble after him, clutching at the banister as you dart up the stairs. He's already by the door to his home-office when you finally catch up to him, one of his hands curled around the knob that he'd been prepared to turn. 

He tilts his head over his shoulder, giving you a long glance that held none of the warmth he'd been reserving for you these past couple of weeks. 

"Do you have a minute?" your fingers are toying with one another, unable to keep still as you await his response. "I'd like to talk." 

Jungkook shakes his head. "I have to get to work," he jerks his chin toward the library, "The children are in there." The finality that laces his voice fills you with disappointment and you watch as he pushes the door to his study open to step inside. 

For a long moment you simply wait. Through the crack you can see him move about, collecting papers and stapling them together before he slides them into accompanying folders. Your gaze darts to where the kids wait for you — torn between duty and something far more complicated. 

In the end, the latter wins out and you storm after him as you shove the door open with more force than necessary. It hits the wall with a thud, not hard enough to rattle the paintings on them, and not hard enough to grab Jungkook's attention as he continues to sort through his files. 

"It won't take long," you're determined to see this through, to get to the bottom of whatever this was. But he doesn't acknowledge you, save for the sigh he lets out, a little louder than the last. You can feel your throat tighten at his blatant dismissal, and the words come gushing out before you can stop them: 

"Did I do something wrong?" 

He pauses at that, the folder currently in his hands bending slightly under the pressure he put onto it. Though you could only see half his face, the frown he wears and the tension to his jawline is unmistakable. "What?" he asks flatly. 

You want to scoff but all you manage is a huff, a strained noise that betrays just how easy it was for him to make you feel things out of your control. "I'm asking you if I did something wrong," you step forward, pushing your shoulders back and lifting your chin. 

Jungkook remains indifferent, his head shaking slowly as he reaches for the briefcase sitting on his desk, the one you had yet to notice. "No," he says, his tone never rising above its default octave, "You haven't." He sounds so sure of himself and it makes you desperately want to believe him. 

Only, you can't. Not when he wasn't even looking at you, much less talking to you. "Well it feels like I have," you shoot back, "So then what is it?" 

A muscle in his jaw ticks as he stuffs the organized folders into the case, sealing it shut with a rough jerk. "Nothing," he grits through clenched teeth, "You've done nothing wrong." 

You let out an exasperated breath, "Well there must be something." Gesturing vaguely to the space that still exists between the two of you, "You don't talk to me, you don't get close to me, hell, you won't even look at me."

The briefcase hits the desk loudly as Jungkook slams it down onto the mahogany wood. He exhales something that sounds almost like a hiss, as though he was holding off on saying things he shouldn't. 

"I need to get to the office," he echoes, "We can talk later." 

He grabs his things, ready to leave — only for you to stop him as you get in his way. "No," you say, halting him in his tracks. His chest nudges yours, a touch that would've send fireworks through your stomach on any other occasion, now it just makes you sick. "I want us to talk now." 

Jungkook's brows pull together, lips pressing into a firm line. The grip he has on his briefcase is white-knuckled, yet he says nothing for a long while. Then he exhales sharply through his nose, "You're being unreasonable." 

The way he says it, like a statement of disapproval, like you were just some kid who's silence he had a right to order. It infuriates you in a way Jungkook had never been able to before. 

"Me?" The accusation tastes bitter on your tongue, "I'm being unreasonable?" Had you been able to take another step forward you would have done so, but your bodies were practically pressed together by this point. "You haven't said three words to me since Christmas Day, and even then you avoided me all afternoon!" your hands are thrown in the air, gesturing wildly to nothing in particular. 

A headache is steadily building behind your eyes, whether it came from anger, exhaustion, desperation, you didn't know, all you know are the feelings in your chest that beg to be let out. "Then at the train station you didn't even—" the frantic flailing of your arms come to an abrupt stop and you swallow the last bits of your confession down. 

Jungkook pauses just as you do, his gaze heavy with an accusation that matches your own. "Didn't even what?" he asks and your heart draws back at the tone he used. 

For a while you debate on not saying anything at all. To mutter a 'forget it' and walk off to the children, pretending that everything was fine. You trap the inside of your cheek between your teeth, gnawing on it before letting go again. 

"You didn't even kiss me." 

There's a small crack in his structured exterior, a quick flash of surprise passing by his eyes, only for him to conceal it again. Jungkook blinks once, then shakes his head. "I thought it'd be better if I didn't," he says. 

"What…?" He doesn't respond, you knew he wouldn't. The roaring fire inside of you is put out as though someone had dumped a bucket of water over it. Better if he didn't? You let your gaze drop to the floor, to where your feet were but an inch from nudging his — yet Jungkook had never felt further away. 

Your next breath catches on your quivering bottom lip — you hadn't even noticed that you were close to crying — and you press them together as you struggle to swallow. "I just—" fingers tapping against your thigh, "I thought that there was more to us." You frown, almost tripping over your sentence. 

It feels devastating to say, to willingly confirm the theory you had been building on with dread. And perhaps it really was true. Perhaps you had let yourself get strung along, let yourself get lost somewhere between the lingering touches and the chaste kisses. 

Jungkook's face twists into a painful grimace as he forces himself to look away, leaving you to watch with a sinking heart as he chews on his next words. His brows twitch once before settling across his forehead. "I have never lied to you," he says. While his tone remains leveled, his jaw clench and unclench as he battles the vulnerability that followed the admission. 

"I don't understand…" If each second spent in his embrace had been real, each kiss and each gentle touch to your skin, then why hide? For weeks you'd been able to place your concerns with his children, delude yourself into thinking that the line between you existed solely because of Cassian and Rayne. But this sudden distance, it was different, and the tremor to his hand, still wrapped around the handle of his briefcase betrays him. 

Your frown returns tenfold as you regard him with scrutiny. "What are you so afraid of?" 

The simple question becomes his undoing as it unwinds the last fragile threads that keep him together. Jungkook's head whips in your direction, his eyes blazing hot when they zero in on you. "A lot of things!" He snaps, finally breaking free of his monotone confinement as he shouts the words in your face. 

Jungkook had never raised his voice at you. Never. And you found that you absolutely hated it. He must see it too, for he immediately takes a step back, the briefcase slipping from his grasp and landing on the floor with a thud. His chest rises and falls, quick and uneven as he tries to rein himself back in. 

A full minute passes without you daring to even open your mouth. He doesn't either, until finally, his chin drops in defeat. "I can't—" teeth trapping his bottom lip, he bites down hard enough to draw blood. When he speaks again, it's no longer a yell, it's something uncharacteristically small, his next confession slipping out soundlessly, "I can't give you what you want." 

You stare at him in silence, measuring the space between you as you glance toward the briefcase on the ground. "What?" You don't register the question until its left your lips, but Jungkook does. 

"It means I can't." He inhales, dragging a hand down his face before forcing it through the hair he'd styled before your arrival. His other one, covered in ink, points vaguely to you, never actually touching. "Whatever this is, it's not right to you." 

A tiny flame flickers inside of you, and you're quick to disagree. "You don't know that." Who was he to tell you what was right and what wasn't, who was he to decide for the both of you? 

Jungkook huffs, "Maybe not." His voice is filled with self-deprecation as he continues, "But I know that we can't keep playing house while I pretend that I'm not being extremely selfish." 

Is that what he thinks this is? That you were here doing charity work with both him and his children — that Cassian and Rayne were nothing but dolls which you moved around as you pleased? 

"Don't act like this wasn't my choice just as much as it was yours," you say, closing the distance between you again when taking another step forward. 

The intensity had yet to dull from his eyes, but he still made no move to back away when you force proximity onto him. He gives you a long once-over, gaze dragging over every inch of you, the way that would always make your skin prickle. Without missing a beat he bends down to pick up the discarded briefcase. 

"Then let me be selfish one last time and take that choice away from you." 

It's the last thing he says before brushing past you and before you can even register what's happening, the door to his study slams shut behind him — leaving you alone with the remnants of the fire you both started. And suddenly you thought yourself stupid for defending him so adamantly in front of your parents. 

You feel like an intruder when walking into the library where the children sit gathered around their usual table. Cassian looks up at your arrival, his face cracking into a beaming grin as he waves enthusiastically. "Nanny!" he calls out as he beckons you over. 

The smile you give him in return doesn't feel genuine and you berate yourself for it. Still, you try your hardest to act like your heart wasn't in complete shambles after your conversation with their father just moments ago. 

"Hi sweetie. What are you up to?" You sink down on the chair next to his, your arm coming to rest against the back of it as you lean closer to better see the drawing he was working on. The rainbow crayons you had gotten him for Christmas seemed to be well-used, and you study the depiction of a large fish with sharp teeth on the paper. 

"I'm painting," he says, pointing to the art work. 

"I see that. Is it a fish?" you ask when running your fingers through his hair, trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. 

He shakes his head, "A shark." 

"Ah, of course." In your defense, the creature on the paper resembled very little of a shark, but you didn't tell him that, content to watch him draw a little while longer. 

Rayne sits opposite him, one of the books she had gotten from her grandfather opened in front of her as she reads. She gave a subtle nod as a means of saying hello, your eyes meeting for a brief second before she went back to the contents of her pages. 

You hadn't seen the kids since Christmas Day and while you had missed them both dearly — Jungkook had occupied most of your thoughts during your stay with your parents. Sitting with them now lessens the ache left by their father's words significantly. 

"Daddy said you went to see your parents," Cassian muses as he colors in the wonky-looking fin of his shark. 

Humming softly, you let your hand fall to the back of his chair again. "I did," the corner of your lip twitches, "They gave me a Christmas present." 

At that he stops drawing, glancing up at you with newfound curiosity. "What did you get?" he asks. 

You think back to the moment in the garage at home. Your dad's grand surprise and your mom's hard work. It wasn't often you found yourself thinking about them like this, suppose it had something to do with the rollercoaster of emotions that today had been. Meeting Cassian's gaze, you give him the first real smile you'd worn all day, "A car." 

"A car?!" The crayons are completely forgotten about as the young boy twists in his seat, eyes wide as saucers. "A real car?" he questions, and when you nod he practically leaps out of his seat. 

Rayne, too, had stopped reading and was now watching you with a look of mild surprise. Though she kept quiet as the library echoed with her brother's excitement. "Can I see it? I want to see it!" He's already on his feet, halfway across the room as he heads for the door. 

You get up after him, "Sure we can. I can even take you both for a drive somewhere if you'd like?" 

"But it's snowing," Rayne speaks up for the first time since you entered, her brows furrowed in concern. 

"I'm a decent driver," you tell her with a confident shrug, "You know that." 

She hesitates for a second, fingers picking at the corner of her page — but even she wasn't immune to Cassian's giddy laughter. The book is shut and she hops off her chair to join you both. "We'll see about that," she says with a huff, though does a poor job at hiding her small grin. 

The three of you head downstairs with Cassian in the lead as he dashes for the font door, eagerly pulling on his shoes, albeit clumsily. You kneel down to help him, easily falling back into the habit of tying his laces. 

"Can I sit in the front?" he asks as he watches you work. 

"You're too small for that," you tell him, having already anticipated the whine that followed. 

There was still a sense of peace that came whenever you were around the children. It was never intentional on their part, least of all Rayne who was still muttering to herself as she pulled on her coat, but without knowing, they brought joy to a day you would otherwise deem ruined. 

Once you're all geared up and ready to go, Cassian suddenly freezes. "Wait—" he says, bottom lip jutting out into a small frown, "I need to get Frank." That was what he'd ended up naming the stegosaurus plushie you had gotten him for Christmas, who now apparently counted as an important member of the family. 

He scurries down the hall, already headed up the stairs when Rayne sighs. "I'll go with him, he's not allowed to have his shoes on inside." You hadn't even noticed that she'd rid herself of her own footwear, standing in only her socks as she give you a quick nod — then she's gone after her little brother. 

You listen to the joint sounds of their footsteps on the second floor, Cassian's excited giggles as he rummages around for his beloved dinosaur. The car keys rest in your palm and you peer down at them with a fond smile. You don't know how you would be able to repay your parents' gesture, but you'd figure something out. 

A minute passes and you're just about to call out and ask how the kids were doing when the sudden knock to the front door pulls your attention away from the keys. Strange. Jungkook couldn't possibly have returned so soon, even if he did, he had no reason to knock. 

Two months you had spent in this house, and not once had there been a visitor besides yourself. Not even a second later, the knocking returns. Three sharp and impatient raps against the wood. Why not use the doorbell — unless they were anxious to alert the wrong person? 

Throwing a glance over your shoulder, you find the staircase empty, Cassian and Rayne were still nowhere to be seen. You approach the door cautiously, fist closing around your car keys, the metal was blunt enough to cause damage, should the person on the other side prove themselves a threat. 

The knocking returns after a beat's silence and you inhale a deep breath before twisting the lock and pushing the door open. 

You don't know who you had expected to see. A big, scary stranger with a mask on, a delivery man maybe, hell, even a clown who'd gotten the wrong address for a birthday party. 

What you find is none of that — but a woman. 

She looks to be in her early thirties, perhaps late twenties, though the dark circles under her eyes and deep frown she was wearing might've added on a couple of years. Her dark hair is a mess, tangled where it falls down her shoulders. She's not dressed for the weather, clad in only a thin fleece which had her wrapping her arms around her torso. 

To put it simply; she looked rough. 

Your grip loosens on the keys you had been clutching, your other hand holding onto the doorframe as you study her. What business could she possibly have here?

"Hi," you try to sound friendly as you greet her, "Can I help you?"

Her eyes find yours in an instant and for a second you could've sworn you saw Rayne in them. But that illusion is quickly broken as they dart around the front porch she stands on, skittish in the way they jump back and forth. "Yes," she says, her voice a low rasp, as though she hadn't used it in a while. 

When her gaze finally finds its way back to yours, her expression has fixed itself into something more composed. She parts her chapped lips, tongue darting out to swipe across the bottom one. 

"I'm here to see my children." 

── [ ✉️ ] Woah. Okay there, before you jump on me and say "Ugh. Ki I hate when they bring back the ex wife in fics like these." Let me stop you right there. Pause. Big deep breath in and out for me. Okay, good? I have a plan, not a concept of a plan but an actual solidified plan. So just trust me for this and sit tight for the upcoming chapters, I know what I'm doing. I won't fumble you ladies <3

Blueberry cheesecake, the sweet and sour flavor that melts on your tongue… your favorite cake, the one Jungkook gets for you every birthday without fail, because he memorized your order long before he memorized his own.

Pastel pink, the soft girly color that clings to every part of you. Your clothes, your bedsheets, your hair clips, every little thing you own carries a touch of pink somewhere. Whenever Jungkook spots the shade in public, his thoughts find their way back to you.

Romantic novels, anything that leaves your heart racing and your feet kicking against your mattress. Jungkook always finds himself wandering into bookstores because of you, scanning shelves for stories he thinks you would like, only to end up buying more books than he originally planned.

Makeup, oh you love makeup. Pink glitter brushed over your eyelids, glossy lips shining beneath the light, sparkly blush dusted across your cheeks. Jungkook swears he finds traces of your glitter everywhere… on his hoodies, on his fingertips, sometimes even on his face after you hug him too close.

Vanilla oatmilk latte, the coffee you order every single morning before school. Jungkook learned how to make it himself after watching you drink it so often, memorizing the exact measurements because you love them.

Powder cologne, soft, delicate and comforting. A scent Jungkook knows too well, one that settles into his hoodies whenever you steal them, one that drives him crazy whenever you lean too close without realizing what you’re doing to him.

Countless things. 

Your habits, your favorite foods, the songs you replay until you get sick of them, your random mood swings, your little mannerisms, the way your nose scrunches when you laugh too hard, the way you avoid eye contact whenever you lie. 

As your childhood best friend, Jungkook almost knows you better than you know yourself.

You were seven when you first met him, while Jungkook was already twelve.

Your mothers were close friends, living in the same village with houses only a few blocks apart. The first time your mother introduced you to Jungkook and his parents, you were painfully shy. Tiny hands clutching your barbie doll against your chest, pink shoes tapping nervously against the floor, you hid halfway behind your mother’s leg while peeking at him.

Jungkook, on the other hand, only looked at you with indifference. 

He had been building legos upstairs before his mother called him down to greet the guests, and judging by the slight furrow between his brows, he was more irritated about being interrupted than interested in meeting you. 

Dressed in a baby blue jumper, he looked like a tiny builder himself, big round eyes already drifting elsewhere as if he couldn’t wait to go back to his room. 

You were an only child, and so was he, which was exactly why your parents thought the two of you would get along perfectly. They insisted you become playmates, excited over the idea of their children growing up together.

The problem was that the two of you liked completely different things.

You wanted barbie dolls, toy kitchens, dollhouses and tea parties. 

Jungkook liked legos, robots, mini cars and toy dinosaurs.

So sitting inside Jungkook’s bedroom for the first time felt painfully awkward. Your mothers stayed downstairs, happily chatting over coffee while the two of you remained trapped upstairs in complete silence. 

You sat on a small soccer-ball bean bag, clutching your barbie tightly in your lap, glossy eyes wandering around his room filled with boyish toys and shelves crowded with action figures. Your pink glittery dress looked so out of place, matching the headband resting neatly in your hair and the tiny dress your barbie wore.

This was not your kind of playtime.

Meanwhile, Jungkook sat at his tiny blue table, completely focused on stacking legos together like you didn’t exist. His brows pinched together in concentration, lips slightly puffed out as he connected the pieces one by one, so serious for a twelve-year-old boy.

You stayed quiet for nearly fifteen minutes, too shy to disturb him despite desperately wanting someone to play with. But as the minutes dragged on, boredom slowly began to creep in. You carefully stood from the bean bag and walked towards him, still hugging your barbie doll against your chest.

“C-Can I join?” you asked softly, curiously staring down at the colorful legos despite not understanding what he was even trying to build.

Jungkook glanced up at you, brows furrowing immediately.

“No,” he dismissed flatly before returning to his legos again.

Jungkook was serious about legos. His playtime revolved entirely around building them, fingers busy connecting tiny pieces together for hours without getting bored. Before that, he had been obsessed with dinosaurs, carrying them everywhere around the house, but eventually he discovered a new fixation. He realized he liked building things. Finishing a set only to display it proudly in his room like a trophy.

You pouted beside him. “Do you have barbies?”

Jungkook frowned immediately, glancing between you and the barbie doll smiling brightly in your hands as if the question itself offended him.

“No,” he said bluntly. “But I have dinosaurs.”

Maybe it was a strange combination.

You were sitting on the soft floor mat with barbie dolls while dinosaurs surrounded them like predators.

He only let you borrow the dinosaurs to keep you occupied enough not to disturb him while he played.

Still, you were entertained.

Cute little noises left your mouth as you imitated roaring dinosaurs and dramatic barbie voices, completely immersed in your own little world. Your giggles often filled the room while Jungkook remained focused on his legos, though sometimes his eyes would flicker towards you for a second before returning to his build.

And somehow, it became a routine.

Every Saturday, your mother would bring you over to Jungkook’s house… excitement would bubble inside you the moment you stepped through the front door because it meant running upstairs to his room again. By then, you already expected the sight waiting for you.

Jungkook sitting in his usual spot near the little blue table, focused on a brand new lego set.

And the dinosaurs already arranged neatly on the floor mat for you.

The two of you barely talked. But neither of you minded. 

At your age, all that mattered was having toys to play with. While for Jungkook, happiness meant building something piece by piece until it was complete.

So every weekend, you would bring over a handful of barbies for the dinosaurs to chase around while Jungkook built something different each week. 

Sometimes it was a car. Sometimes a house. Sometimes an entire little town slowly formed beneath his careful little hands.

It was one quiet afternoon when you finally decided to talk to him properly.

You had just entered his room, wearing your usual pink puffy dress with your hair tied into cute pigtails. After setting down your backpack filled with barbie dolls beside the bean bag, your eyes immediately landed on a brand-new set of dinosaurs arranged carefully across the floor mat.

Your eyes widened. “New dinosaurs!” you exclaimed excitedly, small hands already grabbing one of the unfamiliar dinosaurs to inspect it closer.

Across the room, Jungkook looked up from his lego table. His hands paused mid-build the moment he saw your expression. Your wide sparkling eyes, your bright smile, the way your excitement completely lit up your face over something as simple as mini dinosaurs.

For a second, he only stared. Then he quickly looked back down at his legos with a small pout tugging at his lips.

“M-Me and my mom went toy shopping for a new lego set,” he mumbled. “I saw a new edition of dinosaurs.”

A soft giggle escaped you as you hurried towards his table, clutching the dinosaurs tightly in your small hands. “Really?” you asked happily. “I thought you didn’t play with dinosaurs anymore?”

Jungkook glanced at you from the corner of his eye, slightly distracted by how close you suddenly were to him.

“Yeah,” he muttered quietly. “But you like them.”

He almost fell from his seat when you suddenly crouched down and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, a sweet habit of yours whenever your parents did something for you.

“Thank you, Koo!” you giggled, hopping back towards the soft mat while Jungkook remained completely stunned.

Slowly, heat crept across his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. His boba eyes wide and sparkly like a candy was given to him. His cute brows furrowed, and when he picked up a lego block… all he could think about was your cute smile and soft kiss.

At first, you truly thought you and Jungkook would never become close.

He was too quiet, too focused on his own little world of legos and building sets while you lived inside glittery barbie dream houses and dramatic dinosaur adventures. But as the months slowly passed, you found yourself growing fond of him. And somehow, Jungkook slowly grew fond of you too.

The distance between the two of you became smaller little by little. 

From sitting separately in silence, you were now beside him at his table helping him build lego sets together, your tiny fingers handing him blocks while he taught you where they belonged. It felt almost special, like Jungkook had finally lowered the invisible walls around himself enough to let you into his space.

Quietly, you started wondering if maybe one day…he would want to play barbies and dinosaurs with you too. 

“A brachiosaurus!” you gasped happily, excited when you realized what the two of you were building together.

Jungkook tried to hide the smile threatening to tug at his lips, the tips of his ears and the back of his neck slowly turning red.

"Y-You like it?'' he said in a small voice.

You nodded happily, eyes sparkling as you held up the long-necked lego dinosaur. 

Jungkook smiled, unconsciously leaning closer, his cute bunny teeth showing as he made a mental note to buy more lego dinosaurs for you.

As the weeks passed, moments like those became more common. Then one Saturday, your tiny dream finally came true.

“Hi, Koo!” you greeted softly after entering his room, only to freeze slightly when you noticed his lego table untouched for once.

Instead, Jungkook was crouched beside the floor mat near the dinosaurs.

Your eyes widened.

“Wanna play with you,” he said with a shy smile, as he held a few dinosaurs in his tiny hands.

For months, you played alone while he focused on his lego sets. 

The first time he finally let you help him build one, you were so happy that you started looking forward to every new set the two of you would make together.

It quickly became your favorite part of visiting him.

So seeing him willingly sit beside you now… actually wanting to play with your barbies and dinosaurs instead of his beloved legos—made excitement bubble in your chest.

It felt special, like he was stepping into your world the same way he had once invited you into his.

“O-Okay,” you said excitedly. “You can be the spinosaurus and I’ll be barbie.”

Your small hands shakily arranged the dinosaurs into a circle while Jungkook quietly watched you.

And the truth was, for the past few months, Jungkook had already been watching you more than he should.

Whenever you weren’t looking, his eyes would drift away from his legos just to watch you playing on the mat by yourself. Your cute little dinosaur noises, your giggles, the way you became completely immersed in your stories somehow made him happier than finishing any lego set ever could.

Sometimes he took days to finish builds that normally only needed hours, just because he kept getting distracted by you.

And whenever you paused your playing to look over at him with one of your cutest smiles, his chest would start beating strangely fast.

A small, innocent crush began to bloom in the little boy whose heart had only been filled with lego blocks—the very first piece quietly clicking into place inside him, setting the shape of something he didn’t yet understand.

At the age of eight and thirteen, the two of you became inseparable. 

Whenever your mother got too busy with work, you would immediately beg her to drop you off at Jungkook’s house instead of leaving you home alone, and eventually it became normal for you to spend almost every weekend there. Your mothers didn’t even question it anymore. If you disappeared, they already knew you were upstairs in Jungkook’s room.

And somewhere along the years, you got to know him better. Jungkook only looked snobbish at first glance. Quiet, a little intimidating, always serious whenever he focused on something. But once someone truly got close to him, they would realize how sweet he actually was.

Especially with you.

As your friendship grew, so did the amount of time you spent together. Before long, sleepovers became common too.

The two of you would lie beside each other beneath the blankets, talking about random things for hours instead of sleeping. Sometimes you hid underneath the covers with a flashlight between you, pretending you were camping in the middle of a forest while whispering ghost stories and silly secrets to each other.

Jungkook would pull you close while you giggled uncontrollably, pressing playful kisses against your cheeks before dramatically pretending to die in your arms whenever you hugged him too tightly. 

“I like the stars on your ceiling,” you murmured sleepily one night, while lying beside him on his bed. “Mine is just plain pink.”

Tonight was another sleepover. Your sleepy eyes struggled to stay open because you wanted to spend more time with him before falling asleep. The two of you were even wearing matching pajamas, yours covered in tiny pink hearts while his had blue ones, a matching set you had begged your mother to buy days before the sleepover.

Jungkook turned his head towards you, smiling softly when he noticed your eyes slowly drooping shut.

“You’re sleepy,” he giggled, poking your cheek gently with his finger when your eyes closed for a second too long.

You immediately pouted at him. “Am not,” you mumbled stubbornly. “We still have to play camping later, Koo.”

Playing camping beneath the covers with a flashlight was one of your favorite bedtime routines together, but tonight exhaustion was beginning to betray you. School had drained you completely, your body heavy against the mattress no matter how much you tried to stay awake.

Jungkook's lips curled into a small smirk, an evil little prank brewing in the back of his mind.

With a mischievous grin, he suddenly grabbed his throat dramatically, choking and panting before going completely still on the bed, eyes shut and tongue sticking out slightly like a fish… as if he had died.

“I think it would look cute to have planets too, what do you thin—Koo?” 

The drowsiness vanished from your body the moment your eyes landed on him… frozen beside you.

“Koo?” you whispered, sleepy brows furrowing.

When he didn't move, panic bloomed instantly in your chest.

You sat up so fast the blankets tangled around your legs, tiny hands immediately grabbing his shoulders as you shook him desperately.

“Koo! Wake up, Koo!” you panicked.

Your glossy eyes widened further when he refused to move, his face still scrunched into that horrible dead fish expression. Heart pounding loudly inside your chest, you grabbed his cheeks with both hands, trying to wake him up while tears quickly gathered in your eyes.

“Boo! I got you—” His laughter stopped halfway when he saw your face. Fat tears rolled down your flushed cheeks while you stared at him in genuine fear.

A soft sob escaped your lips. “T-That’s, that’s not funny,” you sniffled quietly. “I thought you were dead!”

Jungkook instantly softened. Though he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling at how adorable you looked.

“Aww, baby...” he chuckled softly, opening his arms for you. “Come here.”

He always called you his baby. Partly because you were younger than him, but mostly because you acted like his cute little girl half the time, clinging onto him whenever you got scared or upset.

When you glared at him through your tears, he only chuckled quietly instead of feeling guilty. Seeing your pouty face, your sleepy swollen eyes and pink cheeks somehow made his chest feel weirdly warm.

It made him want to hug you forever.

Jungkook moved behind you, wrapping his arms around your smaller body until your back rested against his chest. His laughter became softer when he caught your deadly glare again, leaning closer just to press a small apologetic kiss against your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, peeking at your face with the cutest pout.

When you still didn’t answer, he immediately resorted to the one thing he knew you could never say no to.

“Hmm, do you want some ice cream?” he whispered beside your ear, wiggling his brows playfully. “Mom bought some earlier.”

You stayed silent for a moment, still pretending to be upset while staring down at his hands tracing little circles against your palm.

Then your pout slowly weakened. “Okay,” you mumbled. “What flavor?”

Jungkook grinned immediately, bunny teeth appearing the second you gave in. He always knew how to melt your heart. Always knew exactly how to make you smile again.

And just like you spent countless days at his house, Jungkook spent plenty of time at yours too.

The first time he stepped inside your room, he looked completely stunned by the overwhelming amount of pink surrounding him.

Pink walls, pink blankets, shelves lined with barbie dolls, and plushies piled so high on your bed that there was barely any room left to sleep. Even the little lamp on your bedside table was dusted with glitter.

Meanwhile, Jungkook stood in the middle of it all, clutching a backpack filled with toy dinosaurs and looking painfully out of place in your princess-like bedroom. His usual blue jumper was the only thing that didn't blend into the sea of pink.

During sleepovers, you would force him to hug one of your teddy bears while you cuddled your favorite bunny plushie against your chest, proudly telling him it reminded you of him. Jungkook would always pout whenever you said that, his nose scrunching at the sight of you kissing the bunny.

Quietly, somewhere inside his heart, another tiny lego piece snapped into place whenever he watched you hold that bunny so tightly.

Most nights, neither of you slept early anyway. Your mother would occasionally scold the two of you after hearing nonstop giggles coming from your room late at night, the sound muffled beneath blankets while you whispered stories to each other instead of sleeping like you were supposed to.

You and Jungkook were always entertained by each other’s presence. And as the years slowly passed, both of you began to change. Your hobbies evolved just as naturally as you grew older together.

Jungkook slowly drifted away from legos and video games, while you traded barbie dolls and dress-up games for makeup and novels.

It wasn't surprising when Jungkook pursued engineering. He had always loved building things, ever since he was a little boy…carefully connecting blocks together at his tiny blue table.

The rooms that once overflowed with toys changed too.

Jungkook’s room became crowded with sketches, papers, blueprints and a laptop constantly left open on his desk. While your room transformed from shelves of dolls into a vanity covered with makeup, skincare products, perfumes and stacks of romance novels scattered across every surface.

And by the time you were eighteen and Jungkook was twenty-three, something between the two of you had quietly shifted.

Jungkook became protective over you in a way he never was before. Maybe it was because you were no longer the tiny little girl who followed him around with barbie dolls clutched in your hands.

Your cute colorful headbands became dainty little hair clips. Puffy dresses turned into soft sundresses that showed off the softness of your legs, always paired with small heels that made you look older than he was prepared for. Even your eyes had changed. Still sparkly and sweet, but now carrying a teasing playfulness beneath them. A bratty little glint that appeared whenever you wanted something.

But despite everything changing, some things about you stayed exactly the same.

You still hugged him constantly. Still kissed his cheeks whenever he did something sweet for you. Still clung onto his arm whenever you got excited over something small.

To you, those gestures were innocent, familiar, and natural.

But for Jungkook, they no longer felt innocent at all. 

Somewhere throughout the years, your harmless affection had started affecting him differently.

A simple kiss against his cheek suddenly made heat spread through his body in ways that felt wrong to him. Your random hugs made his muscles tense instantly, his breath hitching whenever you pressed your soft chest against him, completely unaware of the effect you had on him.

And whenever you played with his hair while sitting a little too close beside him, or wore those cute little sundresses that clung softly to your curves and showed off your legs, Jungkook would find himself swallowing hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he tried to ignore the strange tightness spreading through his pants.

You were still the same sweet little girl. But Jungkook was no longer looking at you the same anymore. 

The lego pieces inside his heart were stacking faster now, building into something so deep and overwhelming that even he could no longer keep track of it.

“What’s cuter, this one… or this one?” you asked, holding up two dresses for Jungkook to see.

Today, the two of you were spending the day at the mall. After having lunch at your favorite restaurant, you immediately dragged Jungkook into a boutique, eager to shop for new dresses—your latest obsession.

Jungkook tilted his head, “The pink one,” 

“I know! Okay, I’ll get this.” you smiled brightly.

By the time you finished shopping, you had already bought three more dresses from the boutique alone. Meanwhile, Jungkook sat patiently on the couch outside the fitting rooms, paper bags hanging from both of his hands while he waited for you without a single complaint.

When you finally turned to look at him after paying, your expression softened slightly. His head rested against the couch, eyes closed as if he had accidentally fallen asleep while waiting for you.

He looked exhausted. Lately, Jungkook had been reviewing nonstop for his engineering board exam, barely getting enough sleep between studying and helping around the house. 

You were still in college, while Jungkook was already preparing for the next stage of his life.

It made you a little sad sometimes.

Weekends had become your favorite days because those were the only times he was fully free for you anymore.

You quietly sat beside him, and the moment the cushion dipped, Jungkook’s eyes immediately opened.

“You done, baby?” he asked softly, still half sleepy while instinctively reaching for your shopping bags to carry them himself.

You pouted… he looked so tired—wearing a black shirt that was a bit wrinkled from the day, his glasses slightly slipping down his nose and his hair a little disheveled. He still looked utterly handsome.

Without thinking much about it, you scooted a little closer to him. His brows furrowed immediately as your soft, powdery scent wrapped around him.

“Yup!” you smiled softly while fixing his slightly messy hair. “Let’s go home.”

His lips twitched. “Thought you wanted to visit the bookstore after this?” 

You shook your head. “No, wanna rest.” Your voice turned softer. “Let’s take a nap at your house?”

Jungkook’s jaw immediately tensed. His tongue briefly swiped across his lower lip before he looked away for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face as he tried to gather himself together. 

“Hmm…” he bit his lower lip, heavy-lidded eyes staring back at you. “You’ll go home after, okay?” he said, his voice coming out raspier than intended. “I still need to finish some reading, baby.”

A small sigh of relief escaped him when you nodded innocently. You never really noticed the change in him.

To you, Jungkook was only becoming busier as he got older. You didn’t notice how quickly he started declining sleepovers once his feelings for you began changing into something deeper. 

He spent most nights trying to break the blocks apart—convincing himself it was wrong to think about you that way, trying to shatter the lego pieces inside his heart that kept snapping back together every single time he looked at you.

But he was failing, miserably. The little boy who was so good at building legos cannot break his own blocks apart.

Jungkook learned how to make the perfect vanilla oatmilk latte simply because you loved drinking them every morning. 

He once rushed across three different bakeries just to buy blueberry cheesecake after hearing you complain over accidentally receiving strawberry cheesecake instead.

He started buying powdery perfumes, candles and diffusers whenever he saw them because every scent reminded him of you. He even found himself wandering through makeup stores looking at glittery products because your eyes always lit up whenever something sparkled.

You wanted something? He gave it to you. 

Almost every single time.

Still, he buried his feelings carefully beneath years of friendship because the last thing he wanted was to ruin what the two of you already had. 

He tried to stay close without wanting too much. Tried to act normal despite the growing warmth that spread through his chest and cock whenever you touched him carelessly. Tried to ignore the dangerous thoughts beginning to bloom inside his mind whenever you leaned too close, smiled too sweetly or hugged him for too long.

And some days, Jungkook truly thought he was doing a good job at hiding it.

“But Koo, I missed you…”

You followed Jungkook around the kitchen with a pout, trailing behind him like a lost puppy while he tried to ignore the way your voice instantly weakened his resolve.

It was summer break, and all you wanted was a sleepover.

Lately, Jungkook has been declining every single time you asked.

At first, you tried to understand. He was busy drowning himself in thick engineering books and endless papers for the upcoming board exams. But eventually, even weekends became off limits, which felt strange because Jungkook had always found a way to make time for you no matter how busy he was.

“Baby, I have some reading to do,” Jungkook said slowly while grabbing two mugs from the cupboard.

You groaned dramatically, folding your arms while leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes following his every movement as he prepared coffee for the two of you.

One black. One vanilla oatmilk latte. 

“I won’t disturb you,” you insisted stubbornly. “Promise I’ll behave!” You whined softly, stepping closer before lightly tugging on the sleeve of his shirt. 

It’s not like you would stop him from reading, you just wanted to be around him.

Jungkook sighed deeply before finally turning to look at you properly. “I really can’t, baby…promise I’ll make it up to you, okay?”

Your pout deepened immediately, heart slightly breaking when you saw his brows furrowing at you.

With a defeated sigh, you gave him a small nod. “Alright.” 

The second your shoulders dropped sadly, Jungkook’s grip unconsciously tightened around the milk carton in his hands.

His eyes lingered on your face, a tiny pout forming on your lips as disappointment clouded your sparkling eyes.

God, it almost made him give in immediately.

The last sleepover had nearly cost him his patience. That night, he forced himself to stay awake, reading until sunrise just to avoid looking at you too much while you slept in his bed. But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the words in front of him, his eyes kept drifting back to you.

Your soft body was sprawled across his mattress, your pretty face nestled against his pillows, your hair fanned out messily like a constant temptation pulling at him.

The next morning, you were disappointed to find him asleep on the couch. You assumed he had stayed up late reading and eventually drifted off there, too exhausted to make it back to bed.

In reality, he had locked himself in the bathroom, guiltily jerking his aching cock before the temptation of sharing a bed with you became too much to bear.

“Baby…” Jungkook said slowly, voice rough from exhaustion as he lowered the teaspoon and carton of milk onto the counter.

You pouted. “If you don’t want me sleeping over, then can I at least visit you every day?” you asked softly. “I really, really miss you, Koo. I don’t have school anymore and I miss coming here.”

Jungkook closed his eyes briefly at your words. The urge to take back what he said just to see your pretty smile again was strong.

But no. 

Another sleepover meant another guilty night spent in bed, every time he can still smell your scent on his sheets, his hand would wrapped around his throbbing cock, burying his nose against the pillow because it smelled like you, his cock leaking whenever he recalls how your sleepwear would rise up every time you moved around his bed.

It made him so guilty, but it was better than corrupting you.

“Alright,” he finally sighed in defeat. “But I come home late these days, baby… you know that.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Lately, Jungkook practically lived in the library. He spent most nights surrounded by thick books, highlighters scattered across tables while he studied until sunrise just to become the best engineer he could possibly be. Everyone around him already knew how hardworking he was.

And you knew it better than anyone. That was why your chest softened instead of growing upset.

You missed him terribly, missed the days when the two of you spent almost every second together without responsibilities pulling him away from you. But at the same time, you never wanted to become a distraction standing between Jungkook and his dreams.

You had always supported him. Always believed in him. And the last thing you wanted was to become the reason he couldn’t reach the future he worked so hard for.

You smiled immediately, happiness softening your features now that he wasn’t completely stopping you from visiting him every day.

“Okay, Koo. That’s fine!” you chirped happily. “I’m visiting Mama Jeon too, you know!”

Jungkook chuckled softly at your playful tone, warmth spreading quietly through his chest now that your pout had finally disappeared.

Sometimes Jungkook genuinely feared he would eventually cross boundaries he shouldn’t… just to keep you happy.

And honestly, maybe he already was. Because after that conversation, you truly didn’t miss a single day at the Jeon's house during summer.

Some days you baked desserts in the kitchen while laughing with Mrs. Jeon. Other days you helped water flowers in the garden beneath the afternoon sun, your sundress swaying gently while dirt stained your fingertips. Sometimes you stayed quietly in Jungkook’s room, reading books while waiting for him until sunset painted the windows orange.

And every evening, Jungkook would come home to you waiting for him. A warm meal already prepared. Your bright smile greeting him at the door before he could even set his bag down.

Every single time, it made his heart feel unbearably full. 

The sight of you peeking excitedly through the living room window the moment you spotted him outside. The way you lightly bounced on your feet before greeting him with a soft hug. The way you always asked him about his day first before talking about your own.

The way you asked what food he was craving just so you could attempt cooking it for him afterward. 

The way you loved him through the smallest things without even realizing it.

And Jungkook kept falling deeper and deeper for you because of it.

“Are you gonna wait for Jungkook?” Mrs. Jeon asked one evening after finishing dinner. “You sure you don’t wanna eat first?”

You shook your head immediately. You always ate dinner with Jungkook.

He usually arrived home around five in the afternoon, which wasn’t too late, so waiting for him became another small routine you loved. During weekends, he sometimes studied at home instead, filling the house with the sound of flipping pages and keyboard typing while you quietly stayed nearby.

Your Kookie was very smart and hardworking after all.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Mrs. Jeon smiled warmly while cleaning the table. “Good thing he’s been coming home early these days.”

Early?

Your brows furrowed immediately. “Early?” you repeated slowly, leaning against the table in confusion. “Isn’t that his normal schedule at the library?”

You knew Jungkook’s routine almost by heart, which was exactly why her words caught you off guard.

Mrs. Jeon nodded before taking a sip of water. “Yes, that used to be his normal schedule,” she explained casually. “But before summer started, he was staying until eight p.m because he wanted to aim for topnotcher.”

She laughed softly afterward, shaking her head fondly. “I kept telling him it’s okay even if he doesn’t become one, but my son always wants to be the best at whatever he does.”

Your lips parted slightly, realization crashed into you all at once. 

Jungkook had been coming home early because of you.

Because you said you missed him. Because you wanted to visit him every day.

Your chest tightened painfully, you hadn’t realized his original study schedule changed at all. Hadn’t realized Jungkook was cutting hours from his studying just so he could spend more time with you.

The realization made your heart ache in two completely different ways at once. Guilty. And terribly, terribly happy.

When Jungkook got home that evening, he expected you to greet him the same way you always did. A bright smile, soft eyes, your little footsteps rushing towards him before wrapping your arms around him in a hug that somehow always managed to melt the exhaustion off his body. 

But the second he stepped inside and looked at you properly, he noticed it immediately. The smile on your lips looked smaller than usual, hesitant, not quite reaching your eyes. And Jungkook knew you too well not to notice.

“I cooked teriyaki chicken today,” you smiled softly, quickly turning away from him to open the lid of the food on the dining table. “Mama Jeon loved it.”

Jungkook followed behind you quietly, his tired eyes never leaving your figure. You were about to grab a glass of water when his hand suddenly wrapped around your arm gently, stopping you in place. 

“Is there something wrong?” he asked softly, brows furrowing with concern. 

He was exhausted from studying all day, his navy green sweater slightly wrinkled, glasses a bit foggy, hair messy from constantly running his fingers through it. Yet the moment he sensed something was wrong with you, the exhaustion vanished beneath concern.

You shook your head quickly. “Just…” Your voice trailed off when your eyes landed on the small paper bag hanging from his other hand. “W-What’s that?”

Jungkook glanced down at the bag before looking back at you carefully. “Are you okay, baby?” he asked again, quieter this time.

With shaky hands, you slowly reached for the paper bag in his hand.

Blueberry cheesecake. 

Tears instantly welled in your eyes at the sight of it, your heart aching so badly it almost overwhelmed you. 

“K-Koo…” your lips trembled softly as tears blurred your vision.

Jungkook’s eyes widened immediately. “Hey, hey—” he quickly set the paper bag down before gently holding your arms, thumbs soothing over your skin. 

“What’s wrong with my baby, hmm?” he whispered softly, crouching down so he could properly look at your face.

And God, he looked so handsome like this. Tired but still so soft for you. 

His sleepy doe eyes behind his glasses, messy hair falling over his forehead, large hands holding you so carefully like you were something fragile enough to crack beneath his touch. 

You lowered your gaze, lips forming into a pout. “Y-You were coming home early for me…” you whispered quietly, guilt curling painfully inside you. “You don’t have to do that, Koo.”

Jungkook’s thick brows furrowed deeply. “Is that why you’re crying?”

Avoiding his gaze, you nodded slowly while staring down at your own fingers. Jungkook looked at you for a moment before gently tilting your chin upward, forcing your eyes back to his. Amusement slowly softened his tired features despite the concern still lingering there.

“Stop pouting.” he bit his lower lip, a low chuckle escaping beneath his breath as he listend to your tiny sniffles, almost relieved that his poor little baby was crying over something he didn’t even consider serious.

“Jungkook, I’m serious,” you protested, weakly hitting his chest. “We’re talking about your future here! Why would you do that?”

He caught your hand easily before you could hit him again, fingers wrapping around your fist while his thumb slowly traced circles against your skin. “You don’t need to worry about that,” he murmured softly. “I can handle my studies just fine, okay?”

You frowned harder instead. “But you’re coming home early, Koo. How is that good?”

You tried hitting him again, but Jungkook only tightened his hold around your wrist, enough to stop you without hurting you. 

He leaned closer, lowering his head until your faces were only inches apart, as if getting nearer would somehow make you understand him better.

“Need to see my baby for motivation,” he admitted softly.

Your heartbeat stumbled violently inside your chest. Jungkook grabbed the paper bag again before carefully placing it into your hands. “So I can work hard,” he continued quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “and buy you all the things and blueberry cheesecakes you want.”

Your eyes widened instantly, heat rushing across your cheeks and ears while your heart pounded so loudly it almost frightened you. 

“Do you want that?” Jungkook asked gently, his eyes lowering to your quivering lips.

“O-Of course I do, but I swear—”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” he interrupted quietly, like your answer alone was enough for him. 

Enough to make every sacrifice worth it.

When uni started again, you still never missed the chance to visit Jungkook whenever school wasn’t too hectic, and whenever days passed without seeing you, he would be the one visiting instead. 

At first, you tried giving him space because of the boards, but Jungkook always insisted on meeting somehow. Like your presence alone kept him going. Like every sleepless night, every exhausting study session, and every struggle he endured became worth it the second he saw your smile waiting for him at the end of the day. 

Only sleepovers of course is where he drawled the line.

Sometimes, while staring at blueprints and thick documents until dawn, Jungkook would imagine finally succeeding, finally becoming the best engineer he could be, earning enough money to spoil his baby with everything you wanted. And somehow, those thoughts alone were enough to keep him going.

At twenty-one and twenty-six, both of you had changed so much from the children you once were. 

The boyish softness he used to carry had long disappeared, replaced by tattoos and piercings that contrasted almost unfairly against the intelligent image everyone had of him. 

His once lean frame broadened into toned muscles that stretched beneath his shirts, shoulders wider now, veins more prominent across his hands and arms. The boy who once ate lollipops while building legos now smoked cigarettes absentmindedly after stressful nights at work. 

And the engineering student who used to stay awake studying until sunrise had officially become the topnotcher everyone admired.

You still remembered the exact moment he first mentioned wanting his arms decorated. You used to tease him constantly for being such a nerd, especially with his glasses, organized notes and old obsession with building legos. 

Which was exactly why you nearly choked in surprise the first time he casually mentioned wanting tattoos and piercings.

“Huh? Really?” you immediately sat up straighter from the picnic mat, staring at him with wide eyes.

The two of you were spending the afternoon at the park, sunlight pouring warmly across the grass while snacks and drinks were scattered around your little picnic setup. Jungkook looked unfairly handsome sitting there beneath the sun, sleeves pushed slightly upward, dark hair messy from the breeze, soft eyes following your every move.

“Yeah,” he answered casually. “I also plan on getting piercings.” he tilted his head, waiting for your opinion.

“You are not serious,” you gasped loudly, quickly scooting closer towards him in disbelief.

Jungkook glanced down instinctively the moment your body moved closer to his. You were wearing a short pastel sundress perfect for the sunny weather, your hair tied into a loose side braid while your glossy lips formed into the cutest pout he had ever seen.

He swallowed harshly before quickly looking away. Sometimes it genuinely amazed him how you could still sit this close to him so innocently while he struggled to keep his thoughts clean.

“And tattoos?” you continued dramatically, eyes sparkling with excitement now. “Like… what kind? This is bomb info, Koo. Thought you were too nerdy for that.” you teased.

The thing is, he never forgot that moment—the time you were shopping for toys and spotted a limited-edition Ken doll with sleeve tattoos, immediately saying how good Ken would look beside Barbie. His little child mind, his wide doe eyes, quietly took that in and stored it somewhere deep. 

And somewhere in that simple, fleeting comment, his stupid lego heart decided that when he grew up, he wanted tattoos too.

So Jungkook would look good beside his Y/N.

Jungkook pouted slightly at your teasing. “Thought they looked pretty,” he admitted shyly. “I think I want my arms decorated.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “That’s a baddie move right there!” you giggled.

Without hesitation, you grabbed his right arm excitedly, examining it carefully like you were already planning the tattoos yourself. 

Jungkook stared down at your smaller hands wrapped around his arm, heart beating strangely harder inside his chest while your soft perfume drifted towards him beneath the warm summer air.

He bit his lower lip, staring at you through heavy-lidded eyes. “You think I’ll look good with them?” he drawled lazily.

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “Course you will! You’ll be a baddie nerd,” you teased, fingers lightly grazing the muscles of his arm.

Jungkook’s eyes slowly softened at your touch, his gaze growing hazier by the second. Not because he was tired, but because you were intoxicating him again. 

“Stop calling me a nerd,” he groaned, though there wasn’t a single ounce of annoyance in his voice. If anything, his tone sounded far too fond to be offended.

“You are,” you giggled immediately, poking his cheek playfully. “You’re so smart. My smart Koo.”

Before he could respond, you suddenly stole the glasses off his face, laughing to yourself while slipping them onto your own nose. The prescription immediately blurred your vision, making you squint dramatically while Jungkook stared at you in complete adoration.

“Hello,” you mimicked in a deeper voice, trying to imitate him. “I’m Jungkook and I love math.”

You burst into laughter at your own joke while Jungkook only watched you. God, you looked so cute wearing his glasses.

“Baby, stop it,” he chuckled softly, finally reaching towards you to take them back.

You quickly leaned away from him with another laugh, refusing to give them up. Jungkook sighed through a smile before grabbing your waist without thinking, pulling you closer against him, wrapping his arms around your waist while you squealed in surprise.

“Koo!” you giggled loudly, twisting your body away so he couldn’t reach your face. But in the motion, your neck tilted back, your throat exposed right in front of him.

His eyes narrowed, staring at the soft skin of your neck as he bit his lower lip hard, leaning in closer… his pointed nose slowly grazed your skin, his eyes fluttering shut. 

Fuck.

“You smell good,” he whispered, already distracted.

Since you and Jungkook were close, you didn’t think much of it, still giggling as you tried to dodge him, unconsciously giving him more access to your neck. “Koo! That tickles.”

He was getting lost in it, inhaling your scent like he was getting addicted, his nose brushing down towards your collarbones. 

You were moving too much, wriggling in his hold, but his hands on your waist only tightened. “Stop moving,” he groaned, now pressing soft kisses along your throat, his nose burying deeper against your skin.

When a soft gasp escaped you, he stopped immediately, like he’d been pulled out of a trance. His jaw tensed as realization hit him, fear flickering across his expression at the thought that he might have made you uncomfortable.

But you were still oblivious, treating it like nothing more than a game so he wouldn’t get his glasses back, unaware that his soft kisses had already crossed a line—no longer innocent like the soft shallow kisses you shared when you were little.

“Let’s go home,” he suddenly muttered, gently pushing you away from him while clearing his throat. 

“What?” your giggles slowly faded, confusion replacing the smile on your face. “Why?”

You carefully removed his glasses from your face, leaning closer to place them back on him properly, but Jungkook instinctively moved back slightly before you could.

Your expression fell immediately.

“A-Are you mad?” you asked quietly, lips forming into a small frown.

Jungkook swallowed harshly at the sight. “I’m not,” he answered quickly, taking the glasses from your hands this time before putting them back on himself.

But your frown only deepened. “Then why do you suddenly wanna go home?” you asked, sadness creeping into your tone so naturally.

Jungkook nearly groaned out loud. He wanted to kiss you so bad.

Wanted to pin you down against the picnic mat beneath the warm sunlight and lose himself completely in you. His body was reacting so badly to you that it was becoming painful to sit this close without crossing boundaries he had no right crossing.

Still, even while it was slowly killing him, Jungkook reached for your hand again. His thumb traced slow circles against the back of your palm, the familiar motion instantly soothing you the way it always did.

“I don’t,” he sighed quietly. “I just-” 

“Don’t be mad, Koo… please?” you murmured softly, tilting your head slightly to peek at his face while your eyes stayed focused on his hands holding yours.

Fuck. He was so hard.

“I’m not,” he groaned, trying to smile at you despite the chaos inside him. “You know I won’t get mad at my baby.”

Piercings and tattoos suited Jungkook almost unfairly well. He looked more manly now, sharper in a way that made people stare a second too long without realizing it. 

The ink on his right arm wrapped around his skin like it had always belonged there, and the silver piercings he wore caught the light whenever he moved, subtle flashes that only made his presence more noticeable. The lip ring sat against his lower lip in a way that somehow emphasized his natural pout, softening the intensity of his face just enough to be dangerous. And yet, despite all of it, he still wore his glasses when he needed to work, the familiar frames making him look serious and composed while his eyes still carried the same quiet shine they always had when you were kids.

After passing the boards, everything had changed quickly for him. Phone calls from companies came one after another, clients stacking up so fast it barely gave him time to breathe. Within a short span of time, Jungkook had saved enough to buy a brand new house for his parents, choosing to live alone in his childhood home afterward. 

It was almost ironic, how the boy who once built lego structures on a small table was now designing real ones for a living, turning imagination into something tangible and permanent.

Not realizing he wasn’t just building things with his hands—but quietly building a lego heart of his own while watching you grow, piece by piece, until you became the only design that ever made sense.

On his first payday, he didn’t think twice about how to spend it. He took you out to your favorite restaurant, the same one you used to mention randomly in passing, and spoiled you with gifts you didn’t even ask for. 

Because that was always his dream in the end. 

At twenty-one, you had stayed mostly the same… still girly, still drawn to pastel pinks and soft colors, still wearing dresses that made you look like you stepped out of a memory he refused to forget. Your body had also changed in ways that made you more aware of yourself, curves developing naturally and beautifully.

In college, people noticed you too. A lot of them, actually. 

Guys who tried a little too hard to make you laugh, to impress you, to take up space in your attention the way they wanted. You went on dates here and there, curious more than anything, but none of them ever stuck. 

None of them ever felt right.

You were laying on Jungkook’s bed while he worked at his desk, fingers playing with his pillows as you babbled about college life. 

About lectures, assignments, and then, eventually, about the guys who kept asking you out.

“He's not even bad, I guess,” you said with a small shrug, “just… kind of clingy? I tried to give him a shot cause he's kinda cute you know.” you giggled.

Jungkook had always been the one person you could talk to without filtering your words, without rehearsing your tone or worrying how you sounded. 

So you kept going, still unaware of the way his pen had slowed in his hand, or how his gaze had subtly shifted towards you instead of the papers and laptop on his desk.

He didn’t interrupt you. Instead, he just listened, nodding occasionally, offering soft hums at the right moments like he always knew how to make you feel heard. 

He didn’t want to hold you back. You weren’t his. 

Instead, Jungkook kept his distance exactly where it needed to be.

He even asked questions sometimes—small ones, careful ones—because he wanted to understand, wanted to know what kind of people were entering your life. 

Not to control it. Never to control it. Just to make sure you were okay. To make sure no one hurt you.

And every time you smiled about something new, every time you tried something different, he swallowed whatever it did to him and smiled back.

Because loving you, for him, had never been about possession.

It’s about standing at the edge of something he desperately wanted to step into, and choosing not to, again and again, because you deserved freedom more than you deserved him holding you too tightly.

Even when it hurts.

“Do you plan on going on a date with him again?” he rasped, eyes still fixed on his laptop even though the words on the screen had long stopped making sense. 

You rolled your eyes. “No! Like I said, he’s so clingy,” you groaned dramatically, turning onto your side. “He kept texting me during class too. And he was kinda touchy.”

Jungkook froze, Touchy.

He raised a brow, slowly… he turned his swivel chair away from his desk to face you fully.

“Say that again,” he commanded.

You blinked, sitting up a little on his bed and smoothing out your pleated skirt. “Huh? Which part?”

Jungkook’s eyes dropped briefly to your bare legs before lifting back to your face. His expression was unreadable now, serious in a way that made your teasing mood falter slightly.

“Touchy?” he repeated, almost like he was testing the word on his tongue. 

He knew you had never had a boyfriend. 

Picky in your own quiet way, always rejecting people politely, never really giving anyone the chance to stay. 

That was something he had always told himself was a good thing. But there was one thing you told him once that lingered longer than it should have.

Your first kiss. 

You had laughed it off back then, saying it was just stolen during a stupid drinking game in high school, something meaningless, something you didn’t even care about anymore. But Jungkook had gone still in a way you didn’t notice fully at the time. And after that night, the thought never really left him.

The first broken lego piece in his heart.

Jungkook never acted on it. Because he knew where the line was, even if it blurred more and more every time he looked at you. 

Every time he imagined someone else touching you, his mind would go blank for a second, like something inside him short-circuited and restarted wrong. 

His love that was freeing, turning into something selfish and possessive. 

Jungkook knows that he was no better.

Even if he acted like the responsible one, the always-focused engineering nerd with books and goals, there were parts of him he couldn’t control. 

The desires, the sexual frustration, the way he had nowhere to put everything he was feeling for you. 

So he let it out elsewhere… hard, rough and merciless—like he was always unsatisfied. Because no matter what he did, no matter who he fucks, it was never you.

“Well...y-yeah, I thought it was sweet since he seems to be very kind and perfect,” you started, shifting slightly on his bed as you tried to recall your date earlier. “But it was starting to get irritating—”

“Where did he touch you?” Jungkook cut in sharply.

His tone made you pause immediately. You blinked at him, a little stunned by how fast and firm it came out. “Uh… just my thighs—”

He cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration, jaw tightening like he was trying to hold something back.

At your bratty age, you had tried to explore, you would let them kiss you, let them touch you a little, only when you thought there was something there—some special connection, some feeling that made it worth it. But it always disappeared too quickly, leaving you bored, unimpressed, or just… disconnected.

And sometimes, in the quiet parts of your mind, a small thought would surface.

Why had no one ever truly impressed you? Why did everything feel like it was missing something you couldn’t name?

But you always pushed it away.

Because growing up, it had always been Jungkook.

What you didn’t know, what you never really saw—was that Jungkook had already fallen long before you ever started trying to figure yourself out.

He ended up fucking every women who looked like echoes of you—same powdery scent, similar hair length and color, soft features that almost resembled yours if he stared long enough. He didn’t realize it at the time, how every fling carried traces of you in them, like he was trying and failing to recreate something he couldn’t replace. He never stayed long enough for anything serious. Because none of them were you.

His lego hearts were never complete without you filling them.

“I mean, it wasn’t that bad—”

You blinked slowly when his gaze dropped to your thighs again, his eyes lingering a little too long, scanning like he was replaying something in his head. Instinctively, you tugged your plaid skirt down a bit more, suddenly aware of your own body in a way you weren’t before.

“Kookie—”

“Were you uncomfortable?” he asked, voice strained.

His hand came up to his temple, rubbing slowly as if he was trying to steady himself, jaw tightening slightly. You could see it in him clearly now—the tension he always tried to hide whenever it came to you.

You shook your head quickly. “No.”

“Come here.”

You hesitated for a second, then slowly walked towards him. “I swear, Koo, I’m fine—”

“You know what to do when you don’t want something, right?” he sighed, voice lower now, almost careful, like he was choosing every word with restraint.

He reached for your hand, holding it gently before squeezing them. Like he was trying to calm himself through the contact just as much as he was trying to calm you.

“Course, I do,” you replied in a small voice.

And you did. Because this wasn’t new.

The same Jungkook who used to patch your scraped knees when you fell in the backyard. 

The same Jungkook who always made sure you weren’t left out when his friends came over. Even if his friends, Jimin or Taehyung teased you too much and made you cry. 

The same Jungkook who would sigh, drag you away from them, wipe your tears with frustrating gentleness, and buy you ice cream like it would fix everything.

Like a good older brother who never let anything truly hurt his little sister.

You would come to Jungkook when something confused you, when something annoyed you, when something made your chest feel too full and you didn’t know where to put it. You would talk, ramble, complain, overthink out loud, and Jungkook would just listen. Always.

He never really stopped you from anything. He never imposed his choices on you in a way that felt forceful or strict. 

Instead, he would give you advice, calm and steady, letting you talk yourself through your own thoughts. And when you reached the end of it, he would always say the same thing.

“As long as my baby’s happy.”

And somehow, every time, you did exactly that.

Neither of you really questioned it. It just felt like balance. Like the dynamic between you had always existed in that shape and was never meant to change.

His quiet dominance, your easy submission to his judgment—it fit too well to ever feel wrong.

“I think red hair would look good on you,” you murmured, sitting beside him as you absentmindedly played with the back of his hair while he stayed focused on your papers.

The two of you were at a quiet library near your school that day. You had told Jungkook you needed help with math, and like always, he gave in without much resistance. He finished his own work earlier than planned just so he could sit with you, his pen already marking through your problems with that effortless confidence that made everything look easy.

“Or maybe blonde again?” you continued, tilting your head slightly as you tugged at a few strands. “Remember when you went blonde?”

Ken Doll. He remembers.

Jungkook let out a low groan. “Do you want me to finish your papers or not?” he reprimanded.

You pouted immediately, leaning back slightly in your seat, your peach-manicured fingers tapping lightly against the wooden table. 

A color he had picked for you before.

“I do,” you said softly, looking at him through your lashes. “I’m behaving.”

He raised a brow at you, finally glancing up from your papers. His gaze flickered down for a second—too quick to be casual—landing briefly at your neck before returning to your eyes.

“Then behave,” 

You pouted… but still sat properly, letting out a small huff as you adjusted yourself in your seat.

Jungkook, meanwhile, looked completely absorbed in your work. His thick brows were slightly furrowed behind his glasses as he scanned your notes, lips pressed into a thin line while he analyzed every mistake. He looked older like this…serious, composed, almost intimidating in a quiet way. 

His crisp white long sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, tattoos peeking through with every movement of his hand as he turned the page. Dark slacks fit neatly against his frame, and his hair was styled back with gel, though a few loose strands had fallen onto his forehead anyway, softening the sharpness of his face.

He looked like he had come straight from work without even stopping to breathe.

The lip piercing caught the light whenever he moved, a small glint against his pinkish lips as he exhaled quietly through his nose. 

Everything about him felt controlled, grounded, intentional.

And sitting beside him in your school uniform—white button-down slightly loosened at the collar, plaid skirt resting neatly at your thighs, makeup soft and sparkly pink—you couldn’t help but feel like you didn’t belong in the same frame as him. 

Like you were trouble sitting next to something dangerously stable.

“Answer this,” he said finally, sliding a paper towards you.

You frowned immediately, staring at the equations like they had personally offended you. “Huh? I thought you’d answer it for me.”

Jungkook poked the inside of his cheek, clearly unimpressed but still patient. “You need to learn. Once you’re done, I’ll check it and teach you how to do it properly.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back slightly. “But Koo! It’s hard, my head is literally aching from all these numbers.”

He raised a brow at you, expression flat but not unkind. “How are you going to pass math if I keep answering everything for you?”

“But—”

Your protest died the moment you met his gaze. There was that look again. Calm, firm, unbothered in a way that made it impossible to argue for long.

You sighed dramatically and took the paper anyway. “Fine,” you muttered, already giving in. “But you’re buying me oat latte after this.”

Jungkook’s lips curved slightly, good girl. 

“Only if you get it right,” he raised a brow.

You groaned under your breath and finally focused on the equations, forcing yourself to concentrate.

Most of your homework was done by him, even when math wasn’t even involved.

And whenever Jungkook did try to refuse, you always found a way around it.

You’d show up at his house with his favorite ice cream, lingering by the doorway like you weren’t already certain he would let you in. 

Sometimes you’d lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek, gentle and quick, like it meant nothing at all. Other times, you’d just look at him with those puppy eyes of yours—smiling in a way that made it seem like he was the only thing in your world.

And Jungkook would always fold. Every single time.

It didn’t even feel like a decision anymore. It was instinct. The way his expression would soften the moment you appeared. The way his shoulders would loosen, like all the tension he carried everywhere else had nowhere to stay when you were near. 

If you asked him for the stars, he would’ve probably tried to figure out a way to reach them.

He didn’t just like you. He prioritized you. 

You were very spoiled. Jungkook’s hard-earned money always ended up on you—whenever he got his salary, he would immediately take you out for a nice dinner, shop for clothes and makeup you liked, buy your favorite cheesecake, get you more books—everything you wanted, and half the things you didn’t even realize you wanted yet.

It made you happy. Every time you showed up at school with a new bag or a new pair of shoes, your friends already knew Jungkook had bought them for you. Every time you got perfect scores, they would roll their eyes, assuming it was because of Jungkook’s help and hard work behind it.

At first, your friends were very nice to you—almost overly so. They tried to get close quickly, always lingering around you, laughing a little too loudly at your jokes. 

And it wasn’t hard to understand why.

Because they noticed Jungkook first.

They would see him picking you up from school in his black shiny Cadillac, the kind of car that made people turn their heads. They would watch his tall, lean figure step out, his arms decorated with tattoos that became more visible when he rolled his sleeves up, silver piercings catching the light, jet-black hair neatly styled, and sharp honey doe eyes that softened the second they landed on you.

Sometimes he would smoke a cigarette while waiting, immediately putting it down when he saw you coming. He wasn’t someone people could ignore. Not with the way he looked, and not with the way he carried himself.

And when they found out he wasn’t just good-looking but also the top engineer in town, already successful and earning far beyond most people his age, their curiosity shifted into something heavier. So they stayed close to you—not always for you, but for the possibility of him.

Then, when they finally realized you weren’t related, everything changed. 

The smiles faded just slightly, the energy dropped, shoulders slacking like something they thought they could reach had suddenly been pulled away. It was subtle, but you felt it. That quiet shift in how they looked at you, like you had become the reason they couldn’t get closer to him.

From there, the judgment slowly followed. To them, you were just a spoiled girl, someone using Jungkook for attention, comfort, or material things. Something easy to label rather than understand. And over time, that assumption hardened into quiet resentment.

But you were never trying to be anything more complicated than you were. You were kind in a way that came naturally, warm without effort, too soft to notice when someone’s intentions weren’t pure. You didn’t see the resentment clearly, because you were too friendly, too open, too willing to believe the best in people. And that very same softness made it easy for others to either like you quickly… or envy you just as fast.

“Another bag?” Sana raised a brow at you the moment you walked into the classroom, eyes landing immediately on the new pink bag hanging from your arm.

You grinned without hesitation, completely unbothered by their stares. “Yes! It matches my nails, see?” you said excitedly, holding your hand out so they could see your freshly done manicure.

Your friends leaned in slightly, but the look in their eyes wasn’t as excited as yours. It was something sharper…envy, carefully disguised under curiosity.

“Was your nails paid by Jungkook?” Riri asked, her tone slipping into something almost accusatory.

You pouted a little, tilting your head. “Yup,” you admitted. “I accidentally told him I needed a fresh set, so…”

Over the weekend, Jungkook told you he had just received his pay. You always told him to save it—a detail your friends didn’t know…but he still insisted on treating you to dinner, telling you not to worry and to just buy whatever you wanted.

In passing, you mentioned your nails, how you wanted a fresh set for the upcoming semestral break. You didn’t mean it as a hint for him to pay; you always tended to babble randomly around Jungkook.

But then he immediately handed you his card.

“Koo, you don’t have to…” you pouted, though your smile was already forming before you even finished the sentence.

Jungkook didn’t even answer you properly. His large hand simply took yours, fingers warm and steady as he guided you through the mall. 

“What design are you gonna get?” he asked once you reached the nail salon.

You pouted, “Maybe flowers? what color do you prefer?” you asked now, giggling as you showed him your hands cutely.

He didn’t even hesitate. He always leaned toward soft, pastel tones for you, like he already knew what would look best on you before you even decided.

Light pink.

You nodded immediately when he said it, already excited again, rambling about adding tiny hearts and small details on top. Jungkook just watched you softly, expression unreadable in a way you didn’t notice, before he glanced away and told you he’d walk around for a bit while you got your nails done.

You blinked. That was new.

Because usually, when you were in treatment or stuck in a salon chair for hours, Jungkook would be waiting for you nearby. Either waiting on the couch or answering work calls outside the salon.

But this time, he left.

“Thank you, have a nice day,” you smiled at the staff, not surprised when they told you everything had already been paid for. That part was normal by now. Sometimes you even tried to sneak and pay yourself, but it never worked. Jungkook always stayed one step ahead of you.

When you stepped out later, freshly done nails drying as you adjusted your bag, you were about to text Jungkook when you suddenly saw him coming.

A little distance away with multiple paper bags in his hands.

Your eyes widened instantly. Jungkook lifted the bags slightly when he noticed you, a small smile tugging at his lips as he walked closer.

“Done with your nails, baby?” he asked softly, eyes briefly dropping to your hands like he was checking them properly.

“What’s that?” you asked, voice already shaky, excitement mixing with confusion as your heart started to pick up.

He handed you the paper bags, and you immediately looked inside, your heart thumping when you realized he had bought everything you had been eyeing earlier—the bag, the clothes, the makeup… it was all in there.

“Koo…” you said weakly, your voice trembling the moment you realized he really bought everything, even the lipstick you had only tried on for fun.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him. Your face buried itself against his neck, hiding away like you didn’t want him to see how emotional you were getting. 

“Thank you,” you muffled against his skin, your cheeks burning from how overwhelming it all felt.

Jungkook buying you things wasn’t new. It happened often enough that you were used to it by now. 

But this felt different. 

Because you had told him earlier you didn’t need anything. You had insisted you already had enough—bags, shoes, books still brand new at home. You had tried to sound firm about it too.

And for once, Jungkook had actually listened. Or at least, you thought he had.

Because instead of arguing like he usually would, he had simply taken you to all your favorite stores anyway. Letting you walk around, letting your eyes wander, letting you stop for a second too long at things you pretended not to want. You kept telling yourself you were just window shopping. That you didn’t need anything. That you were being responsible.

But Jungkook was watching you closely, knows what his sweet girl wanted. 

He was unintentionally making you fall harder for him. 

Your young, innocent heart once again threatened to climb his walls. Without realizing that you were already standing too close to where you belonged.

Jungkook chuckled lowly at your reaction, smiling when you clung to him a little too tightly, like you didn’t want to let go yet. His hands gripping your waist in place.

“You okay, baby?” he asked softly, voice close to your ear.

You finally loosened your grip just a little, pulling back enough to look at him. Your eyes were still wide and sparkling, cheeks flushed pink, lips slightly parted like you were still trying to process everything.

“I… I’m so happy,” you whispered.

His gaze softened immediately, heavy-lidded eyes dropping briefly to your lips before lifting back up to your face.

“Really,” he murmured, pulling you slightly closer again, just enough that there was no space left between you.

You nodded quickly. “So happy, Koo…”

The following school week, you showed up to class with the new bag already in use, carefully placed on the chair beside you. Your nails were freshly done too, and every time you looked at them you couldn’t help but think of Jungkook. 

“You almost have a new bag every month, do you even know how much that costs?” Nayeon said, leaning back in her chair as she glanced at you with raised brows.

You couldn’t even argue with that. It was true. 

Every month, it was either a new bag or a new pair of shoes, sometimes both.

“And those are branded,” Sana added. “I know Jungkook has a good job, but don’t you think that’s… too much?”

There was concern in her voice, but not really for you.

For him.

To your friends, it looked like he was just spoiling you. Babying you because you were childhood friends, because your families were close.

And from the outside, it probably did look like that.

Like you were simply receiving too much. Like you were just letting it happen.

But what they didn’t see was that Jungkook never hesitated when it came to you. Never treated it like a burden. Never acted like it was something he was losing from.

If anything, it was the opposite. And that was the part you couldn’t explain to them.

Because they only saw what he gave. Not what he felt when he gave it.

“If you keep on doing that, I won’t be surprised if he grows tired of you,” Riri said, shaking her head as her gaze dropped briefly to your bag like it had suddenly become something unpleasant.

The words didn’t land softly. Tired of you.

“That won’t happen,” you said quickly, a little too quickly, like saying it out loud would make it true.

But your friends didn’t look convinced. They rolled their eyes almost in sync.

“Even if you’re close, he’ll still grow tired of you eventually,” Sana added. “Especially if it’s always like that. He’s probably just too nice to say no to you.”

“I honestly feel bad for him,” Riri agreed, leaning back in her chair. “Those things he’s buying? Gosh, he could probably buy a new car already. Everything’s branded!"

The laughter that followed wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. It sat somewhere in between—light enough to pass as a joke, heavy enough to stick.

You stayed quiet. Because for the first time, the thought didn’t bounce off you like it usually did.

The dresses hanging in your closet. The bags lined neatly on your shelves. The shoes you barely had reason to wear but still owned anyway. The perfumes that smelled like soft powder and familiarity. The little pieces of gold jewelry he had given you on birthdays without fail.

All of it. All from him.

Your friends kept talking, but their voices blurred into the background. You tried to smile at lunch, tried to pretend you were fine, tried to focus on your notes later like you always did when your mind got loud.

But it kept coming back anyway.

What if he gets tired of you? What if he’s just too nice to say it? 

You were so used to Jungkook spoiling you that it took you a while to even recognize the thought creeping in—maybe you were too much. Maybe you were asking for too much without meaning to. And once that idea settled, it didn’t just sit quietly. It spread.

The possibility that he might look at you one day and feel burdened? That the person you trusted most might start seeing you as a responsibility instead of someone he chose?

That possibility hurt more than anything else.

Because even though, deep down, you knew Jungkook wouldn’t easily do something like that… you were still afraid.

So for the following weeks, you changed.

You stopped calling him for help with your assignments. You stopped texting him every small thing that happened in your day. You tried to answer things on your own, figure things out without leaning on him, even when your first instinct was to reach for him.

You were trying, quietly and stubbornly, to be less.

And Jungkook noticed.

At first, he convinced himself you were just busy. School, friends, life—it made sense. He told himself not to read too much into it, not to assume anything, not to disturb you.

But then it continued.

“It’s okay, Koo. I swear I can do it by myself,” you said over the phone one night when he had offered to come over and help you with your assignment.

Jungkook paused at that, leaning back in his chair, one hand still resting near his laptop. He had just finished working overtime, exhaustion still sitting heavily on his shoulders.

“You sure, baby?” he asked more carefully this time. “What is it about? Maybe I can help.”

Three weeks.

It hadn’t even been that long. Not for most people.

But for you and Jungkook, it felt different.

Because since you were seven years old, you had always been there. Always reaching out. Always calling. Always texting. Even during vacations, even during trips, even during the smallest moments of the day—you were part of each other’s rhythm.

And he was used to it. Used to you.

He missed you in a way he didn’t really know how to admit, even to himself. Sometimes he would catch himself checking his phone in the middle of meetings, expecting your name to appear out of habit, confused when it didn’t.

But more than that, he was starting to overthink.

Because he didn’t want to come off as clingy. He remembered what you had said about your dates before. So he held back.

But you holding back too? That didn’t feel right.

Because you were never like that with him. 

Always and exceptionally, his sweet clingy girl.

His frustration was leading him to pump his cock every night. After going home from work, he would lie down on the bed still wearing his glasses, not bothering to change his clothes or remove his silver wristwatch. With a grunt, he would pull out his cock from his dark slacks, spitting on his tip in frustration, pumping it hard and fast with the thought of you. 

“Fuck, what’s wrong, baby?” he whispers, squeezing the tip of his cock to coax out more precum. His teeth sink into his lower lip as he imagines burying himself between your thighs, determined to eat your wet pussy until you finally tell him what’s been bothering you.

He wanted to please you so badly, kiss your problems away, wanted to fuck you so hard that all your pretty little head would think about was him.

The one-night stands and occasional hookups were not giving him a proper release. He would push the other girls’ heads down harshly on his cock so he wouldn’t see their faces, always fucking them from behind so he could imagine it was you. He would bend their bodies into positions that would make him think it was your sweet little body he was fucking. He always had the stamina to go for multiple rounds because his cock was always so hard even after he came, his mushroom tip pulsing and leaking for you. 

It was so bad, so sinful, so dirty.

He wanted to know what was wrong, the urge to tie you down with his chains growing stronger. Yet he was afraid to do that to you, afraid to scare his precious little girl.

“No need, Koo, it’s an easy project. Besides, I have a girl’s date tomorrow so I kinda need to prepare,” you said in a small voice. That was a lie—you didn’t have a girls’ date tomorrow… but you’d rather stay at home than see him.

For the past weeks, he had noticed that he didn’t receive any of your random texts anymore, your silly calls for help with assignments, your usual chocolate chip cookies whenever you stopped by his house, or your clinginess to convince him to sleep over even when he would always decline.

The fact that you were going out with your friends this weekend was also very unusual. Although you still spent time with friends and other people occasionally, three weeks without seeing him at all, felt odd.

The chains of possessiveness wrapped around him once again.

“Can I at least stop by to see you tonight?” he almost pleaded. “I miss my baby.”

You shut your eyes tight, clutching your phone in your hands at his words. The wild beating of your heart betrayed you.

“I m-miss you too, Koo. But… maybe next time. I’m really busy,” you reasoned, hoping he would just drop it and let it go.

Jungkook groaned. Your sweet “I miss you” went straight to his cock, his jaw ticking in frustration as he loosened his black tie to regulate his breathing.

“Koo?” you said nervously when he didn’t answer, biting your lip hard when he stayed silent on the line.

“Where are you?” he rasped, his serious tone almost making you jump.

It was Friday, and you were rotting in your room. In fact, you had no piled-up projects or assignments due because you finished them all just to preoccupy your mind from Jungkook. 

The urge to disturb him and spend time with him was strong, but you wanted to prove to yourself and your friends that you were not using him. You were wasting a perfectly boring Friday lying on your bed while thinking about… Jungkook, Jungkook, Jungkook.

“I-I’m in my room, why?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t go anywhere,” he said in a dismissive tone.

“Huh? Koo, you can’t—”

He dropped the call.

Your eyes widened when you realized he would actually come here. 

You quickly scanned your room, sighing in relief when you remembered you cleaned your mess yesterday. Standing up, you looked at yourself in the mirror—your cheeks were flushed, your hair a bit messy from lying down, wearing matching ruffled short shorts and a pastel pink spaghetti strap top. You leaned closer, checking if you should apply lip gloss or not.

“Ugh, why am I panicking! it’s just Kookie,” you grunted, pacing around your room, a bit excited that you would finally see him after a long while.

You brushed your hair, cringing when you applied a little bit of lip balm, debating if you should change your clothes or if you would look stupid for getting ready too much.

Your thoughts were interrupted when your phone beeped with a text.

Kookie: Do you want anything? I can bring you something to eat.

A loud squeal came out of your lips, and you immediately placed your palm over your mouth in case your mom would come check if you suddenly fainted or something. You read the text over and over again like it would change its meaning.

“This is the reason why no one compares to you, ugh!” you groaned to yourself, comparing his sweet gesture once again to all the boys you had tried dating.

You were about to reply when another text came in, not from him but from your good friend Hoseok, also a guy who had expressed his feelings for you before, which you rejected. He was good-looking, kind and sweet, but with his radiating energy and personality, you only saw him as a friend. You were glad he didn’t take the rejection seriously, though… sometimes he acted a bit too sweet with you.

Hoseok: hEY CUTIE! I’m downstairs!!!! Let’s hang out!

“What the fuck?!” your eyes widened immediately, rushing to the bedroom window only to see Hoseok outside your house, waving at you with a bright freaking smile.

You rushed downstairs and quickly opened the door, ready to scold him, but he only laughed at you.

“Hobi! What are you doing here? It’s late!” you hissed, grabbing his arm to shake some sense into him.

He only smiled brightly, laughing at your panicking tone. “Chill, it’s only like… 9 PM? Besides, it’s Friday! Let’s go out!”

You shook your head. Although he was very sweet and it wasn’t really bad to go out with him, you didn’t want Jungkook to see him here. The fact that you had just told him you were busy and now you had a friend over would make you look so bad.

“I can’t, Hobi- I-I have stuff to do,” you said, pulling his arm again, almost shaking it.

He rolled his eyes. “Since when did you become so boring? Unless…”

His eyes squinted as he leaned closer to your face. “Do you finally have a boyfriend coming over?”

“Hoseok!” your ears turned red. You were about to push him away when you suddenly saw a familiar black Cadillac pulling over.

Jungkook opened the driver’s seat door, his dark eyes immediately landing on your small hands holding Hoseok’s arm.

You gulped harshly and pushed Hoseok away. The way Jungkook looked at you made you feel small—his dark eyes slowly dragging over your exposed skin. In your panic earlier, you didn’t bother changing out of your sleepwear since you rushed out to scold your friend.

“Uhh, I think I should go.” Hoseok chuckled nervously, stepping aside when he saw Jungkook’s serious glare on him. The way Jungkook’s jaw tightened made it look like he could punch Hoseok at any moment.

With a bright, awkward smile, he quickly left, leaving the two of you alone.

Jungkook stepped closer, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek. “You were busy, huh?” Jealousy dripped from his tone.

“Koo—”

“Are you dating him?”

“What? No, he’s just a friend,” you panicked.

He raised a thick brow at you, stepping dangerously close and invading your personal space, leaning down to whisper near your ear.

“Then why was he leaning this close to you, hmm?” he mocked, his nose grazing your neck.

Hoseok had been close to your face earlier, but not like this. 

Jungkook’s hands circled your waist, pulling you closer until you could smell his cologne mixed with a hint of cigarette—a sign that he only smoked when he was either bored or stressed.

“He wasn’t, Koo, I swear…” you pleaded, your hands clutching his shirt.

You gasped when he softly bit your neck, his hands gripping your hips.

“How about me? Would you let me be this close to you?” he murmured, his voice dripping with heat, rational thoughts flying out of the window.

You nodded almost immediately, eyes soft. “O-Of course, Koo.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him, low and faint. “Yeah?” he asked, gaze lifting to meet yours for a brief moment before dropping again. “Why is that?”

“Cause you’re my K-Kookie,” you said shyly, the words coming out smaller than you intended, but honest in a way that left no room for pretending. It wasn’t just habit when you called him that—it was attachment, something that had grown with you over the years without you even realizing how deep it had become.

He groaned, squeezing your hips tighter. “Yeah? Then why are you avoiding your Kookie, hmm?” he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss on your neck. “Been thinking if I did something wrong baby,” he grunted against you, inhaling your soft scent.

“I’m s-sorry… I just thought you’d get tired of me,” you said quietly, voice breaking as your eyes began to glass over. “I always cling to you Koo… relying on you like this.”

Jungkook stiffened, the fact that you would think about something like that pained him, when all he wanted was for you to cling onto him, to rely on him, to stay close to him.

His gaze lifted slowly, and the moment he saw your face properly—the way your lips trembled, the way you were trying so hard not to cry—it hit him harder than anything else.

“Who put that thought in your pretty little head, baby?” he asked softly, but there was a quiet firmness underneath it, like he didn’t even want the idea to exist. His thumb reached up instinctively, wiping away a tear that slipped down your cheek. “You know that’s not true.”

You sniffled, trying to breathe through it. “I-I know… I just got scared because…” your voice cracked again, and you hesitated, fingers curling slightly as you looked away for a second before forcing yourself to continue. “B-Because I really like you… and I don’t want that to happen.”

Fuck.

Suddenly, there were bricks in your hands you didn’t remember picking up… stacking themselves, one after another, forming something warm, terrifying and inevitable.

Your small hands reached for him then, hesitantly tugging at his shirt like you needed him closer just to feel steady again.

Jungkook exhaled slowly, something tightening in his chest at the sight of you trying so hard to hold onto him while thinking he might let go.

“Oh, baby,” he groaned, pulling you closer. “I like you too,” he said softly, so softly that you almost didn’t catch it.

Your glossy eyes widened, the legos he was trying to build were now finally coming together.

Like your hands had been there all along, quietly sorting through the scattered pieces he didn’t know how to organize, fitting them into gaps he didn’t even realize were empty. 

And Jungkook just looked at you—really looked at you—like something in him had finally stopped pretending too.

Your mother had been pleasantly surprised when she saw him walk in, quickly turning into the kind of delighted smile she always had whenever Jungkook came around. After all, it wasn’t often that he visited you directly anymore—you were usually the one going to him.

The two of them ended up talking for a bit downstairs, catching up on things in that familiar, comfortable way that made it feel like he had never really stopped visiting your home.

And then, eventually, you brought him upstairs.

You were sitting awkwardly on the edge of your bed, bunny plushie on your lap while Jungkook stood near your shelves, quietly taking in the changes in your room. It looked different from the last time he had properly paid attention to it—more grown, more you, but still carrying little traces of the little girl he grew up with.

After earlier, your heart wouldn’t slow down, panic lingering beneath your skin at how intimate his presence felt in your room now.

He felt like he was finally your Ken now, but to you, he was the dinosaur to your barbie.

“You still have this,” he said softly, a small smile forming on his face when he picked up the small dinosaur he gave you when you were little.

It was cute, a pink little dinosaur he saw in the mall and gave it to you as a small gift for your eleventh birthday. It was sitting beside your bookshelf, along with some of your favorite books that were given by him.

You let out a small giggle, the tension in your chest loosening just slightly. “I actually still have some of your dinosaurs in my storage box,” you admitted softly. “I didn’t throw them away.”

That made him pause. 

He stopped looking around the room and turned his full attention back to you. His dark eyes drifted over your figure, taking in the way your short sleepwear softly clung to your body. 

The gentle curve of your breasts, the softness of your thighs and the bunny plushie resting in your lap—the one you insisted looked just like him.

Jungkook swallowed harshly, tilting his head to regulate his thoughts. “Then why is this the only one out here?” he asked, raising a brow slightly while pointing at your pink dinosaur.

You let out a small giggle, putting your bunny aside and swinging your legs a little where you sat. “That’s my favorite. You gave it to me on my birthday, and it’s pink!”

There was something warm in your voice when you said it, something soft and nostalgic that made it feel less like you were talking about a toy and more like you were talking about a memory you had kept safe all this time.

Jungkook’s gaze softened for a second. 

His cheeks picked up the faintest dust of pink, almost unnoticeable if you weren’t looking closely. His tongue brushed briefly against his lip ring out of habit as his eyes stayed on you, growing heavier-lidded the longer he looked.

Jungkook took a step closer, the space between you shrank without either of you really acknowledging it, like it was becoming natural to be near each other again in a way that felt different from before.

His hand lifted gently, fingers brushing your cheek with a kind of care that didn’t match how intense his gaze had become. “My sweet girl,” he murmured, almost like he wasn’t fully aware he said it out loud.

You looked up at him, his thumb slowly tracing over your bottom lip, your lips parting on instinct.

“Sometimes I still play with them,” you said shyly. “but not like before, I just… talk to them sometimes.”

‘’You do?’’ His brow lifted slightly, but this time there was something darker flickering behind his gaze—interest, amusement, and unadulterated desire.

You nodded, giggling under his touch. “Yeah, I kinda find them cuter than barbies now.”

He shifted his weight, stepping even closer until his hand slid from your cheek down to your jaw, holding you there gently but firmly, like he wanted to make sure you stayed exactly where you were.

“Hmm, I miss playing with you.” he drawled lazily, his fingers twirling the ends of your hair.